To Be Free
by cellostargalactica
Summary: I'll tell the story of Marian Hawke, the woman who taught a slave what it was to love and to be free. I'll tell the story of what we taught each other. DA2 through the eyes of Fenris.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Bioware sure knows how to make characters that I just NEED to write about. I played through DA2 fully expecting that Anders was going to be my romance preference, so imagine my surprise when on my second playthrough, I realized Fenris was a much better character, with a more convincing (and satisfying :P) romance! A cranky badass with a surprisingly tender side? I'M SOLD. But of course I wanted to expand on the romance, and also the dynamics of the story and the other companions, so here is my offering to the Fenris cause!**

**As always, reviews are amazing, so if you have a comment or critique, feel free to drop me a review! Thanks guys, and hope you enjoy! :)**

This is a story about Hawke. Admittedly, there are many of those these days, so perhaps mine isn't anything special. You can't take one step into a Free Marches tavern without hearing some drunkard extolling her many exploits and virtues to many rapt listeners from his barstool perch. I have to admit; sometimes I count myself among those listeners. No matter how many times I hear it, I'll never tire of tale; the victories and defeats, and the time she ripped the arms off an ogre. I suppose I have Varric to thank for that. He never could resist a strategically placed embellishment.

It's a story that I am intimately familiar with for I was there for most of it, closer than many know. Varric is many things but there is a shred of decency in the dwarf that he rarely shows. When mentioning me in his tale, he is vague enough that usually I go unnoticed. I don't mind, for I prefer the relative anonymity - a cause of half a lifetime of slavery, no doubt. Hawke is the hero and I am a bit player, on the periphery. A witness. A voice among many.

I can't see my version of the legend of Hawke being as interesting as the others. Indeed, If I ever chose to tell my tale in a tavern I'd be accused of leaving the best parts out. She never did rip apart an ogre with her bare hands. I won't speak of how she fought off an endless horde of darkspawn single-handedly. She never reigned over the black market of Kirkwall with a ruthless, cunning hand, a beautiful and terrible queen of the underworld. And on this point, I'd say I'm especially versed; she never broke the hearts of all the nobles in Hightown, not intentionally anyway.

That isn't to say her exploits were not amazing. She may not have ripped an ogre apart with her bare hands but she did defeat one with no training apart from what instinct gave her. She unified a city, defended Kirkwall from a Qunari invasion, and even defeated the Arishok in single combat. She was at the center of the confrontation between the mages and the Chantry, and I daresay her actions there have changed the course of the world. There is even a fair bit of dragon slaying in the truthful version of her legend, no embellishment required.

Perhaps less interestingly to the ravenous mob, but no less importantly, she lost one family through the years and survived, even gained another. She delved into ancient thaigs with the second son of noble house Tethras and fought with the Captain of the Kirkwall guard. She dueled with a pirate queen, aided and sympathized with a blood mage and an abomination, of all things.

She wouldn't agree with the way I'm telling this, I know that much. 'They were people, Fenris. Not titles!' she'd say, that bright look in her eye, her lips half curved in a smile. It's probably one of the better aspects of her character- that she could look beyond a sloppily given designation and see the person underneath. Instead of an abomination, she saw a tortured person struggling under the weight of his convictions, for example. Instead of a slave, she saw a man.

It occurs to me that Varric is more than able to tell the story of Hawke alone, the tale of the Champion of Kirkwall. I wouldn't dare tread on his territory in that regard, nor would I ever be able to, even if I had the inclination. I lack the flair and patience for the dramatic. Instead, I'll tell the story of Marian Hawke, the woman who taught a slave what it was to love and to trust again, to forgive and to be free. I'll tell the story of what we taught each other.

* * *

Fenris ran. He was fast in the way only a fleeing slave can be, with the bark of a pursuer quick on his heels. His bare feet slapped against the freezing flagstones and he stumbled, pushing himself onward before he properly caught his balance. Behind him shouts echoed through the alley, ricocheting violently off the filthy walls. He could hear laughter and the lilting strains of a reel played on fiddle in the distance, curling into the gloaming air like banners in a breeze. His heart beat a furious counterpart to the music, that visceral violence juxtaposed with a merry melody, altogether out of place in this darkened cage.

He was no coward, but he knew the look of an uneven fight when he saw one. And Fenris had no intention of being killed or caught, clapped in irons and dragged north to his master, to be paraded about like an amusingly willful creature, now that its flight had ended. In his dreams and waking thoughts alike Danarius loomed, the dark halls of his manse, the pain and humiliation he'd inflicted on Fenris for years, the cruelty hidden behind a genteel smile. And always the burn of his magic on his flesh and soul, the flash of fire and blood.

"Fan out!" came the cry from behind. "He's here somewhere."

Fenris threw himself into the nearest alley and willed his heart to be still, his pulse to calm and quiet, because he knew that a discerning slaver would hear even the quietest breath and calmest heartbeat. They could smell a slave - all sweat and fear, and blood. For Fenris they were even quicker and keener, for his flesh was marked with lyrium, and the lifeblood of magic had a scent all its own - like the snap of electricity on storm-thick air. He could no more suppress the lyrium than he could stop his desperately pounding heart.

A pair of slavers lumbered into his alley, kicking aside wet piles of garbage and cutting apart strips of moth eaten linen that fluttered like wings in the stale breeze. A hint of sulfur curled in the air, and in the distance he could hear the churning of a forge. Perhaps a better place to hide than this. Fenris' hand closed around the hilt of his blade when one the slavers peered into his nook, the man's dull eyes penetrating the murk. If discovered, he would fight. Perhaps he would have been able to achieve victory in those early days, but three years of running had left Fenris weak and exhausted. It had strung him tight and scraped him bare. His hands trembled in idle moments, and always those memories beckoned, pulling at him with hard fingers, pulling him down. Exhausted rage welled in Fenris as he stared into the cruel eyes of the slaver who had not yet seen him, the lyrium pulsing through his blood, pounding in his ears - a beast begging to be freed from its cage, begging to slam his fist through the slaver's chest, leave it a pulpy mess. But if he killed this man he'd summon the whole battalion, and as good as he was, he would not be able to fight that number, not in his state.

Though if the slaver persisted, he wouldn't have a choice. He tensed, preparing himself for the inevitable melee. But he needn't have worried; in the next moment the slaver drew away and crashed after his comrade, and only then was Fenris able to suck in a trembling breath.

"He's not here," said one of the slavers in the courtyard, offering a snappy salute. "We've scraped these alleys clean."

The captain was not pleased. A cruel man with cunning eyes and a piggy face, he now pursed his wormy lips in distaste. "He didn't just vanish into thin air, Lieutenant. He's no ghost."

"That's just it, Captain. That's exactly what he done. A real ghost." The Lieutenant cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, as if Fenris was indeed a ghost, a bloodthirsty ghost with ethereal fingers poised over his unguarded throat, ready to cut. These Tevinters had peculiar beliefs, Fenris thought. Granted, he might have encouraged them over these last harrowing years, as they served him.

"Jumping at shadows," the Captain sneered. "Trembling over a little ghost story. He's just a slave that gave his master the slip, and we're here to put that to rights."

"You don't know," breathed the Lieutenant, shivering. "You just came down from the Imperium. You haven't seen."

"Seen what?" the Captain snapped. "He's got lyrium brands. I've seen those."

"You ever seen him use them?"

"No."

The Lieutenant fell silent, shivering again. Fenris stood completely motionless, though his feet were soaked with fetid garbage and a chill had settled in his weakening lungs. He would wait without so much as the slightest twitch until the slavers moved on. _For the love of whatever gods there are, please let them move on, _he prayed as another wave of pain lanced through his skull. The world shimmered.

"We nearly caught him up in Antiva. Sneaking through Antiva city. Tried to go to ground, or the like. The Crows gave him up. We found him at a brothel, trying to pass as one of the mutes that attend to the whores. All hooded and cloaked, but you can see the lyrium anyway. We thought he had him too, 'cause Danarius had some debt he was owed from the Crows, forced them to help. We had him surrounded. We - we thought we _had him!"_

"And you didn't," said the Captain. For all his attempts to appear smooth and unaffected, Fenris could see a small glimmer of fear in his cruel eyes.

"No," breathed the Lieutenant. "Three men went to take him, put him in irons. He was there one moment, and the next ... he was a ghost. He - he shimmered, like plate in the sun. He reached for my brother and then - then the next thing I know my brother is choking on his own blood and there's a hole the size of a fist in his chest. And that was it. Any man that reached for him got the same. Didn't even need his sword."

Fenris remembered that day in Antiva. The Antivans liked to call it a jewel, but Fenris only saw the shadows and hidden places, only walked with people for whom the shine of Antiva city meant little. The brothel mistress had found him half dead in a darkened gutter and taken pity on him, and while he was not inclined toward accepting help from strangers, he had little choice. He had run without stopping for over a year. The only meals he'd had in that time consisted of berries and stringy game and shoe leather.

He insisted on leaving but the mistress wouldn't hear of it. She fed him and cloaked him, and gave him a place to hide. He should have known that to show him care and mercy was to invite a mark on your head. The slavers had come, cutting the throats of the whores and then the mistress alike, and he had been left standing amid their bodies as if his hands had done that terrible deed, and for a moment he was not standing in a sunny brothel in Antiva but the mud-drenched jungles of Seheron.

And it had been an easy thing to kill, then.

The Captain cleared his throat. "Lyrium brands or not, he's just a slave. You telling your captain you fear a lowly slave?"

"I'm no fool," said the Lieutenant a bit defensively.

"You are if I say you are! Report!" he barked as another pair of slavers converged on them. "Any sign of our ghost at the Alienage?"

"No, sir," said one of the slavers. "The Hawke's been giving us trouble."

"Curse her blood," snarled the Captain, his voice curling over the Tevinter insult like rot. Fenris did not grin - indeed it often seemed as if he no longer knew how to - but a small flash of bitter amusement curled his lips. That would be the one Anso hired, he suspected. He'd given the dwarf instructions to find someone to spring the slavers' little trap, and Anso had gone and found the queen of the bloody Kirkwall underworld.

Fenris had only been in Kirkwall for a few weeks, but already he knew enough to know that 'the Hawke' was one to watch. He hadn't seen the woman in person but he'd certainly heard of her, the way the dredges of this town talked. From what he gathered she was a Ferelden refugee turned Kirkwall smuggler, and a more skilled and bloodthirsty woman had never lived. Any profitable deal that took place in Lowtown had her fingerprints all over it. Any up and comer had to pay his respects to the Hawke if he wanted traction in the underworld.

If Fenris had been in the practice of seeking allies, he might sought her. Whatever else she was, no one could deny her skill.

"Let's go," said the Captain. "The Hawke won't be able to handle a full battalion."

Fenris waited until he could no longer hear the clack of their mailed boots striking stone, and then waited half that time again. He waited until the air grew cool and the direction of the breeze shifted to come in from the sea, until the smell of salty air filled his alley, and only then did he relax. He was not safe, not completely. He wouldn't be safe until Danarius lay dead and the slavers stopped coming altogether, until there were no more slavers left in this world to come for him. But for now, the danger had passed. It had peered into his dark hiding place and seen nothing.

With the slavers distracted by The Hawke, Fenris was free to make his escape, if he chose to. And indeed, he considered it. The last three years of running had honed his instinct to flee until it functioned with pinpoint accuracy. He could sense the best routes for escape. He could predict the patrols of the slavers with only slight margin of error. And now his instinct told him that the slavers would converge on The Hawke, who had thwarted their blundering efforts in these last dark weeks. He could leave, if he wished. He could abandon his stand in Kirkwall, the City of Chains.

But something stopped him. Perhaps it was frustration. Perhaps it was that familiar exhausted rage that churned in him like a forge. Perhaps even shame. A woman went to face down his foes and here he was, standing in the shadows like a coward, considering how best to make his escape. He was many broken things but he was not a coward. And he would rather die than continue to live like one.

He froze midstep and turned on his heel. Slowly at first, then faster and faster until he sprinted through the fetid alleys, splashing the walls with murk as he ran. His heart struggled in his chest like a panicking bird, fluttering in its cage, but he pressed himself harder. The Hawke may be skilled but she was one woman against three dozen hardened slavers of the Imperium, the most terrible empire on the face of the earth, where cruelty and malice is taught alongside numbers and letters.

As he grew closer, he heard the din of battle, the screams of men meeting their deaths. No woman cried out among them, though that could change in the span of a single, delicate moment. He broke into a sprint, pushing himself beyond normal endurance, feeling the lyrium surge through him. Pounding like blood, like a darker, second heart, made of shadow and flame.

He rounded a corner and saw the Lieutenant from before, his sword held point out, the tip of it trembling. He saw the slaver's face twist in shock and hatred as he took in Fenris, the glowing path of lyrium dancing over his skin.

"You!" he snarled. "In the name of the Imperium, I order you to lay down your arms and surrender yourself!"

"Poor man," Fenris hissed, like some feral creature. "You know it wont be that easy."

"I will not warn you again!"

In the courtyard below, a long scream sounded in the still night air - possibly feminine, possibly The Hawke's -and before the slaver could respond, Fenris hurtled toward the man, feeling the lyrium set his skin aflame, his bones alight. It was always an excruciating pain to phase into the lyrium, but for slavers and mages he made an exception. He ignored the pain and allowed it to fuel him. He became the ghost of Tevinter's collective nightmare, and with a hiss of rage, he easily battered aside the slaver's sword and plunged his fist deep into flesh and bone.

The slaver stumbled away, his breath coming in wet gasps. He looked down at the hole in his chest with detached surprise, as if it were an arcane curiosity and not his own wasted body. With a garbled groan, he fell backwards down the stairs into the Alienage, his body thudding wetly as he fell. A smear of blood stained the steps behind him.

The scene in the courtyard surprised even Fenris. A dozen bodies lay strewn around four individuals - three women and a dwarf bearing a crossbow too fine to seem deadly. Only the Captain and a half dozen slavers remained. The tallest woman narrowed her green eyes and brought her shield to bear, stepping quickly in front of the youngest, hardly older than a girl. And in front of them all was who Fenris assumed to be The Hawke.

She was short, he noticed first, and curvy. Her dark hair had come loose, hiding her face, but when she looked up he saw a flash of grey eyes and a quicksilver grin, as if an evening battling slavers was better entertainment than whatever distractions the various taverns of Kirkwall could conjure up. She was light on her feet, and she never took those astonishing eyes off the Captain. Every step that he took she mirrored in a manner that gave Fenris that feel of instinct - another creature of instinct, like him. He had not heard her speak - indeed, he didn't know of her at all - but in that odd moment he felt a similarly odd kinship with this stranger.

"Poor man," she said, unconsciously echoing Fenris from just moments before. But where he had spit the words, she spun them like a song, accompanied by that jackal's grin. "Having a bad day, are we?"

The Captain ignored her. "You are charged with aiding and abetting an escaped Tevinter fugitive. Surrender yourselves or meet your death!"

"You know, I have to admire your dedication," she said, flipping her left dagger so that the blade flashed in the pale moonlight. "If you weren't a slaver, I might have let you go tonight. But if there's one thing I can't abide in this world, it's a man who thinks he's entitled to power, and uses it to hurt others."

Fear made the Captain breathless, for only an idiot would have missed the menace in Hawke's voice. "I own no slaves."

"But you enforce those who do. Same thing, in my book." She took a step closer. "This is nothing personal, you understand! I'm sure you're quite lovely to your family. But you really should have chosen another line of work. I hear farming is nicely devoid of any moral concern." A flash of that quicksilver grin. "Ah, well. In the next life."

And the battle was joined. The woman shot forward like an arrow, her daggers flashing like her grin, faster than should have been possible for a mere mortal without the benefit of lyrium burned into their flesh. But she was quick and skilled - a perfect marriage of instinct and years of training, obvious in the flawless control of her attack and defense. This was a dance she knew well. And Fenris - stupid and cowardly, with a long fascination for beautiful, dangerous things - was entranced.

He broke from his stupor and shot into the fray when a slaver flanked Hawke, the point of his sword dancing dangerously close to her unguarded side. Abruptly he felt the lyrium burn searing his bones, flaring like the heart of the sun. He was a ghost again, a lyrium ghost, his body no longer flesh and blood but pure magic - both boon and bane. He moved faster than the eye could see, and only when the slaver lay dead at his feet did Hawke look up at him for a brief moment, and her gaze was like magic itself, searing like the lyrium, but somehow oddly without pain.

"Stop, slave!" cried the Captain. "Submit and you will not be harmed!"

The words burst free before he could check them. "I am not a slave!" he roared. The Captain brought his sword to bear but he was too slow, far too slow; Fenris parried it out of his hands as if it was a toy blade, and they were children sparring in the dirt. He thrust, parried, thrust again, and this time his blade went true; plunging through armor and flesh and bone until the point stuck out the Captain's other side. And even then, the slaver spoke the words of his master, though now they came out in a wet whisper, slowly fading into nothing.

There was silence as the five of them stood in the courtyard, the bodies of slavers at their feet. Slowly Fenris willed the lyrium in his flesh to extinguish itself until he was just an elf with a sword - no different or better than any other. "You're The Hawke, I presume," he said finally.

"It's just Hawke," the woman said as she cleaned the blood from her blades and sheathed them. She and the dwarf exchanged grins, as if he'd reminded them of some private joke.

Fenris cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "I apologize. I knew the hunters would trace me here, but I did not know they would be so . . . numerous."

"They were easy enough work for us," she said, gesturing behind her to her companions. "No harm done. I take it you were responsible for this?"

Fenris found her manner odd. He had been expecting Hawke to be a taciturn, somber, perhaps even aggressive. Her affect did not match the skill he had heard she possessed, nor the rumors that circulated the low places of Kirkwall at a near frenzy. He faced her, clearing his throat again. "I-yes. I am Fenris, and these men were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister's lost property- namely myself."

She crossed her arms, raising a delicate eyebrow. "Seems like a lot of trouble for just one escaped slave."

"Yes," he replied unhelpfully.

"But you're more than an average slave, aren't you?"

It wasn't exactly a sign of superior powers of observation, but Fenris gave her credit for coming right out and saying so instead of dancing around the issue. "You would be correct. I ... imagine I appear strange to you."

"You'd be surprised," said Hawke. "A lot of strange business in this city. A lot stranger if you keep company like mine."

"Perhaps not," he allowed, watching her carefully.

A shadow crossed her face as she considered, but it quickly passed. "Well, Fenris, I am pleased that I could offer you some assistance. If you have need of it again, I'm told I'm quite easy to find." With a bow and another grin, she beckoned for her companions to follow.

It was odd to watch her go, and he found himself speaking before he was consciously aware of it. "Would your offer still stand if I asked for your assistance tonight?"

Hawke cocked her head curiously. "What do you need?"

"I suspect my former master accompanied these slavers. I would like your help in dealing with him."

Fenris expected her to refuse outright. He knew what he was and how he appeared to strangers. An elf and a slave, a freakish abomination of lyrium and magic. But to his surprise she barely seemed to consider before nodding, flashing him another quicksilver grin. "The world could certainly do without one more slaver, wouldn't you say?"

Fenris stared; she was certainly odd, and strangely endearing. Who in this city would render their help in such a manner, especially to an elf, and admitted former slave? Fenris slowly began to understand why this woman had gained such a reputation in Lowtown, for it seemed that no task was beneath her attention. "I thank you."

"My pleasure," Hawke said, grinning, and Fenris saw that when she smiled, her cheeks dimpled. It bothered him that he noticed.

He pulled away, resisting the urge to cross his arms. "Danarius is holed up in his mansion in Hightown for now, but when word reaches him that his ambush has failed, I suspect he will try to flee. I will meet you there," he said quickly before turning away, moving quickly through the streets again. Standing out in the open unnerved him, and if he was being honest with himself, the woman Hawke unnerved him as well. Openness and charm were just another ruse. A silken tongue and smile easily covered foul intent. He had long learned the foolishness of trusting a pretty face, or any face, for that matter.

As he sped through the streets of Kirkwall, he pushed the thought of Hawke from his mind. It was time to focus now. Danarius awaited him, snug in his Hightown mansion, and Fenris would not let this chance pass him by. Finally, after years of being hounded and chased, after years of cruelty and servitude, he would see his former master pay with his life. The possibility was oddly calming, and out of a hard won instinct, Fenris felt himself fall into a meditative calm, a preparation for battle as he waited for Hawke.

As he approached the mansion, he saw with some irritation that it was dark, seemingly uninhabited. Danarius was no doubt inside, lying in wait, an army of summoned demons and thralls at his beck and call. Fenris balled his hands into tight fists; demons would not stop him now, not when he was so close to true freedom.

He thought of his first memory, as he always did when he thought of Danarius. At first there was only a thick darkness, an impossible, impenetrable quiet, and then a scalding pain, a flaming agony as the molten lyrium was burned into his skin. For days he writhed in the dark as the artisans crafted him into a creature of magic and power, immune to his screams and pleas. And even after the artisans were finished with him, he burned. His bones ached as if they had been burned and charred just as he had. His hair had fallen out in clumpy patches, and when it had grown back, it was white as snow. His skin was raw and flayed, and it was weeks before he could stand even to lie on a mat to sleep; any contact was an acute pain.

When he finally was healed the artisans brought him to his master, and Danarius had smiled. 'My little wolf', he had said. And that was his beginning; anything before that moment was nothing but an impenetrable haze. He assumed he had a life before the lyrium and the artisans, but he could not remember it.

Fenris heard Hawke approach, and he turned to face her as she sprinted up the stairs to Danarius' mansion. He had to give her some credit; she was skilled. She had moved through the streets more or less unnoticed, and it was only due to Fenris' heightened senses that he was able to detect her now. He nodded in a quick greeting as she came to a silent stop, her pale grey eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"No one has left the mansion, but I don't hear anyone inside. Danarius is likely ready for us," Fenris said, nodding up at the darkened windows.

Hawke followed his gaze. "I'm ready for him," she said boldly.

Fenris was skeptical. This woman was young, early-twenties perhaps, and though she seemed skilled, he doubted she had come face to face with a hardened magister of the Tevinter Empire in her time as smuggler queen of Kirkwall.

But the dwarf beside looked up to her with a grin. "What's another mage if you've killed ogres?"

She elbowed him, though he saw her throw the dwarf a quick wink. "Hush, Varric. We have work to do," she said sternly, and then nodded to Fenris, drawing her blades.

"Let's go," he said, easing the back door open, and together they slipped into the darkness within.

The air inside the mansion was stale and rotten. Broken tables and piles of books and other detritus littered the floor, and Fenris felt his heart sink. His master was a fastidious man; if he were truly here, the mansion would be in a very different state, he knew this much. But he pushed forward into the darkness regardless, calling out in defiance. "Danarius! You cannot run now!"

He felt Hawke slip through the dark more than he heard her. She was silent, and as they passed under a torch he saw that her face was a mask of concentration, levity all but absent from her features. The dwarf and the younger woman mirrored her manner. They were clearly accustomed to this.

His ears pricked and he turned, his eyes taking in a darkened room just as he saw shades burst from the floor, hissing terribly, shadows rolling off their bodies. "On your guard!" he heard Hawke shout before she leapt into the thick of the shades without a second thought for herself, her blades gleaming in the light of the torches.

He followed her into battle as he drew his greatsword, but to his dismay, he found himself almost mesmerized by the way she fought. She was too fast, he marveled, and her blades struck out, piercing and slashing without abandon. She leapt and spun through the air, tumbled and danced out of the shadowy grasp of the shades. Behind them, the dwarf cackled gleefully, loosing shot after shot at the shades, and- magic! Fenris's blood turned to ice as he watched the younger woman shape a ball of fire and hurl it at the demons. He and Hawke jumped out of the way only just in time.

A mage! Fury and fear bloomed in his gut, and it took concentrated effort not to lash out, to stifle the rattling cage of memories he kept locked away. But they were there, always there - memories of fire and shadow, memories of blood splashing out of cut palms, and the sick smell of that unholy magic. He felt a sudden urge to warn Hawke, to explain to her what a dangerous creature she collaborated with. How easily those who wield magic turn on their own, he thought with disgust. But he shook his head, ignoring Hawke's curious look. A warning for after they had dealt with Danarius.

"So your master is the demon summoning kind of mage," Hawke said casually, flipping her daggers before sheathing them.

"Are there any other kinds?" Fenris asked bitterly.

They continued through the dilapidated mansion, fighting shades and demons as they sprung from the floors, but Hawke never wavered, never stumbled. To Fenris' intense surprise, sometimes her face would break out into an excited grin as she flipped and spun, and he found himself captivated by her joy, and her skill. Every moment spent in her presence confirmed that her reputation was rightfully earned.

But their search through the mansion revealed nothing. It was as Fenris feared; if Danarius had been here, he was long gone now. He stifled the urge to rage; it was a reaction of weakness, and he had no interest in behaving as such, at least not in front of others.

"He's gone. I had hoped . . . no. It doesn't matter any longer," he said to the expectant Hawke, trying to ignore her painful concern. He cleared his throat. "I assume Danarius left valuables behind. Take them if you wish. I . . . need some air."

He left them standing in the broken mansion as he strode to the door, his hands curling into furious fists. Danarius had escaped him again, the bastard! Fenris realized Danarius had probably never been in Kirkwall. He likely was holed up in his estate in Minrathous, casually sending wave after wave of pathetic slavers for Fenris. Why would he leave the safety of the capital when he could easily send his thralls in his stead?

Fenris spat bitterly on the ground. Danarius knew that he would dare not go to the capital, not even if he had an army at his disposal. Such an act would be suicide; Danarius was secure and powerful in Minrathous, and Fenris? He was alone. Forever eking out a stolen freedom, but never truly free to pursue anything. As long as Danarius lived, he knew that he would never be free.

He heard Hawke and her companions leave the mansion, and he felt the urge to both run away and to stay with her, fight at her side. He rounded on them instead, the bitterness he felt twisting his words into a heated accusation. "Magic hounds me at every turn, and now I find myself in the company of even more mages," he said severely.

The younger woman narrowed her eyes at this. "I'm right here, you know. You don't have to talk about me as if I'm not here."

But Fenris ignored her outburst, facing Hawke instead. "You harbor a viper in your mist. It will turn on you when you least expect it," he warned.

To his surprise, Hawke's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the laughing, clever-tongued woman from before was all but gone. "My sister is not a viper, and not all mages are the same," she retorted.

Fenris was taken aback; both at her passion and the admission that the mage was Hawke's sister. He inclined his head in apology. Though he knew her belief was foolish, he bit back an acid retort- he didn't want to argue with her now. "If I appear ungrateful, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth," he said carefully. This stranger had no reason to help him, and yet she did anyway, despite seeing what he was.

As quickly as it had come, the anger faded from her features. "Ah, well. Seeing what your master did to you, your distrust of mages is understandable," she allowed, silencing Bethany with a hard look.

He cleared his suddenly tight throat, feeling clumsy. "Though it was for nothing, I thank you for your aid. I do not have much, but I will find a way to repay you," he promised.

But Hawke grinned, shook her head. "None needed. You don't need to pay me to send me after slavers," she replied.

Fenris was captivated, completely against his will. It was a rare person who gave their help without thought for gain, and from the exasperated look on the dwarf's face, he gathered this reaction was common for her. She helped him track his master on principle alone, and this realization was what decided him.

"Hawke! Are you-"

"Hush, Varric!"

The dwarf shook his head. "We're never going to get the money for the expedition if you keep offering your help for free!"

Hawke looked scandalized. "I'm not going to start shaking people down so we can leave sooner! I have to sleep at night, you know!"

"Perhaps I can offer my aid to you in return?" Fenris interjected quickly, before the dwarf could retort.

Both Hawke and Varric paused mid-argument, regarding Fenris speculatively, and Fenris almost regretted the offer. He was used to traveling and working alone, and suddenly now that the words were out of his mouth, he cursed himself. To work with others again was a kind of trust, one that Fenris was typically not comfortable with.

But there was just something about this woman. Less than a night in her presence, and already Fenris was offering his services to her without a thought to an escape. There was something dangerous in the way she affected him already, but he found that he could not take his offer back, nor did he want to. Curiosity and captivation held those words back, and so he waited for her answer, watching her slowly come to a decision.

Hawke recovered first, flashing him another charming grin. "You don't have a problem with the Deep Roads, do you?"

"I can't say I've had the pleasure of traveling the Deep Roads. But I am able enough, and I won't slow you down," Fenris replied.

Bethany and Varric looked less than pleased at his offer, but Hawke did not share their dismay. Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and her smile was genuine. "It's a deal, then. Welcome aboard," she said, and somehow, despite years of conflicting experience, Fenris believed that she actually meant her words.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Huge thanks to Ol' Dandy Me, Telelli, arkaex, Judy, Ambrel, Sidereal, socialkombat, innocenceinstinct (sorry your name isn't typed right- it autocorrects it out for some reason ) , shewolf51, StarrChilde, Emantsal, and Hello Kitty Litter for your fantastic awesome reviews, and to everyone else who has faved and followed this story! I'm thrilled that you guys liked it! :D**

**If you read, please drop me a review and tell me how I'm doing; I love hearing from you guys! Thanks, and I hope you enjoy!**

It took Fenris a few days to become somewhat comfortable with the idea of remaining in Kirkwall. He was so accustomed to a life on the run that it was impossible for him to stay anywhere without constantly looking over his shoulder for the markings of the Imperium on armor or skin. Every undue noise was a slaver around the corner, every shout from the streets beyond was the prelude to battle, and Fenris reacted as he always had; his very bones lighting with lyrium, blazing in the halls of that dark mansion like a brazier. But for the first time in years, Fenris found himself in the company of allies who assured him that if there was any whiff of trouble with the slavers they'd 'handle the situation'. Hawke made the promise with her customary quicksilver grin, flashing him a wink before sauntering away. He had watched her go longer than was prudent.

Deciding where to stay had actually been easy. Fenris concluded that if he was going to remain in Kirkwall, he would do so in his master's long abandoned Kirkwall mansion, for there would be no better place to monitor his return. Aveline, the guardswoman ally of Hawke's, had discovered that the building was more or less condemned, yet it was kept standing out of fear of Danarius, who's reputation dogged him even here, hundreds of miles away. But it was of little consequence to Fenris. He would live here in the hopes his presence would goad his master into action. The thought of a willful slave sleeping in the master bed and partaking of the extensive wine collection in the cellar was an offense that most Tevinter magisters would have died before tolerating.

In fact, that was the idea.

Fenris spent those first weeks taking stock of his new situation. He cleared the halls of bodies and stocked the pantry with food he preferred; tart fruit, strong cheese, bread with berries and nuts baked in, and any other pungent foodstuff that would overcome his inability to taste. He rummaged through the closets and hidden places for anything that he could sell. Hawke insisted on paying him for his work, but the better he got to know her, the more uncomfortable it made him to take a share of the profits.

In the mansion, one statue in particular caught his eye. It was a perfect likeness of an Andoral, the God of Slaves. His first memories were of the burning room, the artisans, and a statue of Andoral, blankly observing the proceedings. The Dragon of Chains was an idol that was imminently popular in Tevinter, and he had grown to hate it.

The Old Gods were perhaps the only thing the magisters of Tevinter loved more than themselves, as they were the source and reason for their power. So in a way, their worship was a kind of narcissism. Fenris was quite sure that if the Old Gods were not the source of magic, the magisters would not care at all for them.

Fenris stared at the hideous statue, and then with a grunt of anger he shoved it down the steps, where it shattered spectacularly on the stone floors below. It would likely take the rest of the day to clear away the debris but Fenris didn't care. He stared at the sundered pieces with fierce satisfaction. The Dragon of Chains would not watch him anymore. Never again would he bow his head under its unfeeling gaze.

A polite knock sounded on the door downstairs and Fenris froze, his heart jangling. Though he knew a slaver would not knock, he unsheathed his greatsword anyway. One could never be too careful in this place, and idle assumption often cost the foolish their lives. On careful feet, he crept downstairs and opened the door a crack.

A stranger stood on the doorstep, wearing an expression of polite curiosity. Fenris mastered the urge to slam the door in the man's face. As far as the city was concerned, this mansion was an eyesore, a long abandoned hovel kept empty out of propriety and fear, and he didn't want the perception to change while he occupied it. He quickly decided intimidation would serve him better here; he grabbed the man by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him close so their faces were only inches apart.

"How did you know I'd be here?" he asked in a deadly voice, shaking the man for emphasis. "Speak!"

The man's face paled in terror, and his lips trembled as he struggled to speak. "Please, messere! I have a message for you!"

A message? Fenris almost released the hapless man in surprise. "From whom?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

The man fumbled for his pocket and produced a neatly folded piece of vellum. "Here! Please let me go, messere! I won't tell no one you're here!"

Fenris' gaze darted from the note to the man's face. "Indeed, you won't. If the Guard find me here, I'll know who was to blame." He snatched the note from the man's shaking hands and let him drop. The messenger sprinted away on unsteady legs and did not spare one backward glance. But Fenris did not watch him go. Instead he slammed the door behind him and stared at the little piece of paper with growing dismay. Though he knew it was useless, he unfolded the note and stared at it, as if though by force of will he could glean its meaning.

Fenris did not know how to read. He assumed he'd never learned before he received his markings, and Danarius had never bothered to teach him after he lost his memory. Why would he have? All slaves are expected to do is perform rudimentary tasks, and the ability to read would not serve such a task. Fenris wasn't required to know how to read in order to guard Danarius. He needed to know how to use the markings on his skin, and how to wield a greatsword. All he truly needed to know was how to obey.

It wasn't for lack of trying, though. One day a few months after Fenris had come into Danarius' service, he had come upon his apprentice Hadriana poring over an old tome, and her expression had been nearly transcendent with glee. He had been intrigued; not by the woman, but by her reaction to the book. She looked far happier than he had ever felt, and he was consumed by the need to have that happiness himself. By then he had known better than to ask what she was doing and if he could do it too, so he had waited for her to leave.

As night fell, he had crept from his meager quarters back to the study and found the book Hadriana had been reading. The room was dark and he was without a candle, but with some concentration, he set the lyrium in his skin aglow, in order to see. The pages were covered with beautiful symbols and pictures, and he couldn't understand a word of it, but he crept back there every night for weeks, trying in vain to teach himself what those beautiful markings meant.

Of course he had been caught. One night, Hadriana had come upon his feverish efforts and she had beaten him within an inch of his life, flayed him with whip and magic alike. And then she had brought him to Danarius.

The cold smile on his master's face had chilled his soul. He had known that trying to read was wrong, though he didn't know why. Hadriana had accused him of trying to gain the secrets of the old magisters, and he had countered with the admission that he didn't know how to read. At this, they laughed at him, a punishment more painful and cruel than any beating.

"You are not a person, Fenris. You are my property, and property has no business in learning," Danarius had said, and with that, he had sent Fenris away for further punishment.

Fenris realized he had crumpled the note in his anger. It was nothing more than a ruined ball of paper in his shaking fist. He took in a slow breath, willing himself to be calm. He wasn't a slave, not any longer, and Danarius was possibly thousands of miles away. He would be punished for attempting to make sense of this little note. He was free to do as he wished.

It was upsetting to realize that even after almost three years of freedom, he had to constantly remind himself of this. Likely there was a philosophical question in there somewhere. Can a man truly be free if he has to remind himself that he is?

Carefully, he uncurled the note and smoothed it out in his hands. Though he didn't understand the markings on its face, he admired them. The handwriting was careless and flowing, adorned with tiny curls and crosses that sprawled over the page like they had been born to it. He traced the letters of each word with one finger, as if he were the ones writing them, as if perhaps he could understand them that way.

He suspected the note was from Hawke, though he had no way of knowing for certain. The writing was just as he saw her, just as she acted. Carefree, graceful, beautiful. Despite all sense he was intrigued, just as he had been by Hadriana's tome.

Her beauty was strange to him. She was small and yet curvy, sensuous. Her nose was slightly overlarge, and one of her front teeth was chipped, which he had seen as she grinned at him from across the room. But the effect was charming; he didn't know why, but it gave him the sense of adventure and freedom, as if she'd gotten it in one of her pursuits. He had stared, and the urge to ask her where she had gotten it almost overpowered him. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were a strange, piercing shade of grey; they made him feel as if she could see straight through him, as if all she had to do was look at him to learn his secrets.

He started to crumple the note again, but stopped to reconsider. There was surely no harming in keeping such a little note? It's not as if it's presence would encourage him to let down his guard completely, and let Hawke in. He repressed a snort. There was very little danger of anything of the sort. As far as he cared to know, Hawke was a beautiful woman, and that was all.

The day passed slowly as Fenris wandered through his former master's dilapidated mansion. Though he cared little for Danarius' property, he made piles of garbage and cleaned away some of the old bones, if only for something to do. Though he coached himself not to, he took out the little note from his pocket to admire the writing from time to time, and despite everything it made him smile.

He avoided going out in the open during the day- the stares of the random passers-by were irritating and tiresome, and the denizens of night were much more accepting of his bizarre appearance. So he watched the shadows slowly creep across the floors as the sun rose and fell, until night descended and the only shadows to be seen came from the fire he had lit.

Another knock came on the door, this one more insistent. Slavers? Or the guard? He reached for his sword out of instinct and struggled with the impulse to just leave the mansion and find somewhere else to hide.

He heard the door open, and that decided him; he was almost out of the backdoor when he heard a familiar voice. "Fenris?" it called, and the pounding of his heart lessened somewhat. He peeked down into the foyer and saw that it was Hawke, craning around the mansion with poorly concealed interest. When she caught sight of him her expression brightened, and he tried to ignore how the sight of it made his heart falter.

"Hey!" she called up to him, waving. "Where were you? Did you get my note?"

Curses. He did not intend to confess to his inability to read, so he lied, carefully averting her gaze. "What note?"

She fumed. "That miserable pile of spit. I paid him twenty silvers to deliver it to you!"

And he earned them, no doubt. "I'll pay you back," he offered. He didn't like the idea of Hawke losing money on his account.

"Ah, no need, no need. I just like to complain," she said, laughing at herself. "So I think I'll be needing your help for a while now, if that's all right. Can't have too much help with this Deep Roads thing."

A task- he could handle that. "What do you need?"

"Well, I don't even know what Varric has up his sleeve tonight. He keeps rambling about some maps- at this point, I'm just along for the ride. He wanted me to meet him in the Hanged Man. I thought I'd enlist some reinforcement from you," she said, gesturing excitedly as she spoke. "You don't seem like you're in the habit of putting up with nonsense. Where me - I can't say piss off to anyone."

It wasn't that she cursed, although the words sounded even funnier coming from her lips. It was her easy chatter, her excitable manner. He didn't smile, but the corner of his lips turned just slightly almost of their own accord. "I'd have thought you'd be right at home with nonsense," he heard himself say before he could clamp his mouth against the words.

But she laughed! She laughed, and Fenris marveled at the sound of it. "Ha! And how would you know?"

"Just a feeling."

She laughed again, and to his surprise, he saw a faint blush color her skin. The effect was lovely. "I see," she said with a grin. "And are your feelings usually on the mark?"

"My instincts are," he said, coughing nervously.

Hawke seemed to sense his discomfort because she let the matter drop without another word. "Shall we?" she asked, gesturing to the door.

Fenris nodded, and with another grin she pushed open the door and stepped outside, the night enveloping her like a cloak, so thickly that he had to strain to see her. She turned to him with that same bright quicksilver smile, the chipped tooth winking at him in the pale light, and he was suddenly overcome with the suspicion that he would be following her through many places in such the same manner. To his surprise, though, the prospect was not as repulsive as he would have thought it to be. Indeed, it was not repulsive at all.

The Hanged Man typically made a fine trade most nights, but to Fenris this night was especially busy. A large group of Red Iron mercenaries held court at the bar, singing rowdy songs of conquest and trading bawdy stories at the tops of their voices, each one more outlandish than the last. At the center of their attentions was a buxom woman with a blue headscarf, trading right along with the best of them; when she caught Fenris' eye, she winked.

A lifetime of slavery had taught Fenris to be uncomfortable in places like this. Luckily, though, Hawke seemed to know where she was going; she wove through the crowd with surety, and he kept close, one moment even brushing her shoulder with his own. He jumped at the touch, but she didn't seem to notice. Every now and then she would grin and chat with a regular, casually referencing a successful job or a failed wager, gesturing widely as she spoke. He stood at her side as she chatted, and it was a mark of her easy charisma that those she spoke to hardly seemed to notice him, despite his bizarre appearance and unintentionally intimidating affect.

Eventually, they made their way past the main floor and up the stairs before coming to a stop outside what Fenris assumed to be a fine suite. The music was quieter here, and the hallway was narrow enough that once again Hawke stood only a few breathless inches apart. He swallowed hard when she turned to him.

"Does Varric live here?" he managed.

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Varric says he likes to keep his finger on the pulse of this town, and where better do to that than at the Hanged Man?"

"Fair point," he conceded.

She winked, then knocked smartly on the door, three light raps. "Hawke?" a voice asked from within.

"You expecting someone else?" she returned, rolling her eyes again before pushing the door wide open. Varric was there, reclining easily at the dining table with a frosty mug of ale in his hand.

"You were supposed to be here an hour ago!" he groused good-naturedly.

Hawke shrugged, flashing him a charming smile. "And you waited for me! You must really like me or something."

"I guess so," Varric allowed, smirking. "Come on, have a seat, you two," he said, gesturing to the empty chairs beside him. Fenris took a careful seat at the end of the table and Hawke plopped down beside him, reaching for the ale in Varric's hands.

"Oh, no you don't."

"Seriously, Varric, you're like my mother. If we're going to snatch some Deep Roads maps off of a Grey Warden tonight, I'm going to need some lubrication," Hawke grumped. Fenris found himself biting back a smile.

"Speaking of family, where's your sister? I thought she wanted to come with us tonight," Varric deflected easily.

"You think I'd let my baby sister anywhere in this town after dark?" Hawke said, incredulous. "And even if I didn't care, do you think my mother would allow that?"

"Your mother seemed like a real easy-going lady. I think you just don't want Sunshine to have any fun."

Fenris caught the unhappiness in her eyes only because he was watching her too closely. She bounced back into sarcasm easily. "That's me, all right. The stick in the mud. You caught me."

"Keep your pants on, stick in the mud. Norah!" Varric shouted out into the hallway, and a very hassled looking young woman peeked her head in the room in response.

"Yes, love?"

"Get me two house ales and put it on my tab."

Fenris started to protest; he had given the last of his coin to Anso, and had no money for even an ale. "I don't need any-" he began, but Varric interrupted him.

"Don't worry about it, elf- it's on me tonight."

"I-thank you," Fenris said, though his voice sounding tight to his ears. He didn't like owing people anything, especially not strangers.

Varric smirked, leaning back in his chair and twining his fingers. "So here's the deal. I don't know how much Hawke told you about this expedition, but we're headed into the Deep Roads. The Blight's over and there's bound to be some decent treasure down there, right?"

Fenris shrugged noncommittally. "I wouldn't know."

"Well, I would, and there is. The problem is we don't really know where we'd be going; if we picked up and left right this second, we'd be wandering blind. We need maps. And my contacts found someone who has them."

"The Grey Warden," Hawke offered, snatching the ale from Norah's hands and taking a healthy pull.

"Right, the Grey Warden. That's where we're off to tonight. Any problems?"

Fenris sipped his ale carefully; though he couldn't taste it, the chill of the beverage was refreshing. "None on my end," he replied.

"So, what exactly do you know about this Grey Warden?" Hawke asked.

Varric shrugged. "He came here with a bunch of Ferelden refugees. Word is he's playing medic down in Darktown."

"Kind of an odd occupation for a Warden."

"You're not going to hear me argue that one." Varric reclined again, cocking his head. "Supposedly, he's an apostate."

Fenris had been taking a slow sip of ale, and it took every bit of self-control he possessed not to choke on it. Regardless of any misplaced fascination he felt toward the woman at his side, he would not remain a part of this crew if they collaborated with maleficars. He drew the line at demons and blood mages. But he needn't have worried; Hawke, for her part, handled this news with similar suspicion. "What kind of apostate, Varric?"

The dwarf eyed Hawke speculatively. "There's more than one kind?"

She didn't address the joke. "I won't make deals or do any business of any kind with blood mages," she said firmly, to Fenris' growing surprise. Her sister was an apostate, so he thought she might have been more understanding of those who turned to blood magic.

Varric leaned forward. "You realize you're not in the best line of work to have principles, right?"

She pointed to her face. "I have to like this face when I look at it in the mirror. No to blood mages."

Varric made a show of grumbling acceptance, but Fenris saw that the dwarf was easily just as charmed as he was. "It's a good thing you got skill, Hawke. Otherwise I don't see how you'd get any work."

"When you're the best, people put up with quite a lot."

"Ha!" Varric laughed, taking another ambitious gulp of ale before leaning forward conspiratorially. "So tell me, Hawke. We're all dying to know how you chipped your tooth."

"Who's 'we'?" she asked, her lips twitching against a smirk.

"Oh, you know. Broodster over here," Varric said, gesturing vaguely in Fenris's direction.

Broodster? Was this strange dwarf talking about him? "I don't brood," Fenris said.

"Please. If your brooding were any more impressive, women would swoon at your feet as you passed. They'd have little broody babies in your honor."

Hawke choked on her ale, covering her mouth so as not to spray the table. "Varric!" she admonished. "Play nice with the new kid."

"What's the fun in that?" Varric grumped.

"Apparently none. Care to address these claims?" she asked of Fenris, quirking her brows.

"Only that your friend is very odd for a dwarf," he said. "For one thing, where's his beard?"

"For all the things obviously wrong with Varric, and you pick the absence of a beard?"

Fenris took another sip in what he imagined was a dignified way. "Well, you know. You have to start small. I thought it had perhaps fallen onto his chest."

To his great surprise, Hawke burst into laughter, nearly knocking over her ale in her paroxysms of hilarity. "Not so broody now, eh, Varric?"

Varric was not as impressed. "The broody elf tells a joke! Mark this day in the calendars; it's bound to only happen once a year!"

"We'll see about that," said Hawke.

"You never answered my question, by the way," Varric accused, jabbing a thick finger in Hawke's direction.

"I thought I told you this story already. The ogre punched me in the face before I killed him, chipped my tooth."

Varric's expression was skeptical. "Uh huh. Last time you said a Templar cracked you in the face with his shield."

"Did I? Goodness, I must be going senile," Hawke said, airily examining her fingernails, before draining the rest of her ale. "What do you say we bag us some Warden maps?"

"Cheers to that," Varric replied easily, lifting his mug in a salute. "I'll get the real story out of you one day, Hawke."

Hawke tapped his mug with hers. "Sure you will," she said, and though her expression was light, to Fenris her voice sounded strange, almost sad. He wondered why she would lie over such an inconsequential detail, and as they drained their mugs and set out into the still night to apprehend the Grey Warden, the question continued to hound him.

With some surprise, he realized belatedly that this was the first time he had spent more than a five minutes in friendly company with a person, and he hadn't considered running away once.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thanks and cookies to Everything In Its Right Place, Shadowfang, socialkombat, Crowe, Cocoasit, Telelli, Judy, Lioba, Blah, Avilynn, arkaex, Kristanci, shewolf51, kalivon, Ambrel, and rebelgoddess19 for your awesometastic reviews! And thanks also to everyone else faving and following this story! I'm blown away by the support this is getting!**

**It always struck me as a bit odd that Fenris didn't have much of a reaction to Anders when you recruit him, so I've attempted to expand on that today (with some degree of success I hope?)**

**Please feel free to leave me reviews and concrit as you feel is necessary; I love hearing what you guys think! Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy :D**

Fenris had not been in Kirkwall long so he had not yet ventured far enough into the city to reach Darktown, but now that he was here he figured he shouldn't be as surprised as he was at its squalor. Refugees and waifs huddled around guttering fires, and the smoke in the air was thick enough to choke on. Children wailed and men and women alike comforted them half-heartedly, their faces gaunt and eyes full of defeat.

The smell alone was strong enough to give him pause, but he persevered, keeping Hawke's brisk pace through the streets. This terrible place was where the truly poor came, the destitute and ill, the infirm. This was a place where freedom availed no one, where it was no comfort or prize.

He had seen many cities in his desperate bid for freedom, and despite the differences between people and nations, he could always count on the presence of a slum. In Tevinter, there were many places like this, especially in Minrathous. The poor and ill were kept away from the shining face of the city and crushed under foot like vermin. Of course only the most pathetic and useless were forced to live in these hovels; the magisters would first select any who would make a decent slave and 'acquire them', conditioning them for a life of servitude. Fenris had never been able to decide who had gotten the better end of the deal.

He watched Hawke closely as they wandered through Darktown. Though she attempted to keep her expression light and carefree, her eyes grew more and more horrified with every step. Sensing an easy mark, many of the refugees attempted to ply her with a tragic story of death and homelessness, only to be urged along by Varric. Some attempted to relieve her of her coinpurse without her knowing, but both she and Varric were wise to such tricks.

As they continued on, they came upon a young girl, perhaps six or seven years old, who was shivering on the steps and wiping her gummy eyes with a filthy hand. To Fenris's eyes, she seemed very ill, and very malnourished; he wondered how long she had been down here in this squalid pit. As she saw Hawke approach, she leapt off of her perch, attempting to look vital and healthy.

"Messere!" she said, looking up at them with eyes as wide as saucers. "Messere, do you need a housecleaner? A seamstress? I can do anything you want, let me work for you!" she said, and her voice sounded weak in spite of the energy she tried to inject in it.

Hawke knelt before the girl, rubbed some dirt off of her cheek with her sleeve. "What's your name?"

The girl seemed unsure of this line of questioning, as if she expected to be scolded instead. "Sarah," she said finally.

"That's a pretty name," Hawke said. "Where is your family, Sarah?"

At this Sarah's eyes filled with tears, though she bit her lip hard to keep them at bay. "My mama was killed by the darkspawn. My brother died here. He was sick, and I couldn't find the healer," she said in a wobbly voice, tears leaving tracks down her filthy face.

Fenris didn't know Hawke well enough to interpret the pained cast of her features properly, but it resonated deeply in him. With a careful look around, she dug through her pockets and pressed two gold coins into Sarah's palm. "Keep those hidden," she said firmly. "Go to Hightown and find Worthy the dwarf. Tell him that Hawke sent you, okay? Can you do that?"

Sarah nodded.

"Good. Go on, now," she urged, giving Sarah a gentle push. With one confused backward glance, the girl took off, weaving through the masses on unsteady legs.

Varric raised his eyebrows. "Worthy?"

Hawke shrugged, grinning. "He said he was looking for an apprentice with good hands. That girl lifted my coin purse off of me in the first two seconds we spoke; I imagine she'll do."

Varric spluttered. "Your- what?"

But Hawke laughed. "Relax. I got it back," she said soothingly, waving it in his face.

"I'm never taking you down here again."

"You won't hear me argue that one," she said. "Now, where exactly is this Grey Warden supposed to be?"

"My contact said he's got a clinic up here with lanterns outside the door? That was as specific as he got," Varric said, shrugging.

Hawke glanced around, squinting to see through the smoke and ash. "Like those?" she said finally, pointing to a doorway in the distance, framed by cheerfully glowing lanterns.

"Couldn't hurt to check it out."

Fenris found that he disagreed; as a former slave and fugitive, curiosity for its own sake could often prove fatal, especially if a mage was involved in the equation. He didn't like this situation, not at all. Grey Warden or no, a mage could always be counted on for one thing; power beyond their ability to understand and handle.

He vowed to watch this mage even more closely than was typical for him. For a reason beyond his fathoming, he felt an instinct to protect Hawke from her ease towards mages, from her understanding of their ways. It was an understanding a mage could and would easily take advantage of.

Tucking her coin purse back into her leather breeches, Hawke set out resolutely, weaving through the filthy crowd and jogging up the stairs toward the clinic. She hesitated outside the door, and for one moment, Fenris wondered if she was perhaps reconsidering their decided course of action, or if she was afraid. Her gaze caught his, and as their eyes met a strange thrill coursed through him, yet he could not look away, nor did he want to.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and with a nod, she pushed open the door, striding into the dingy room. The first thing Fenris saw was a weeping woman being comforted to no avail by an extremely haggard man; her sobs cut through the silence like a blade. Through the wall that their bodies made, he saw lights, glimpses of a lanky blonde man, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

And then, ragged breathing. The woman let out a cry and detached herself from her companion's side to help the prone child sit up, her tears now ones of joy. The lanky man broke away then, leaning limply against the wall, the lights vanishing into his palms. He took in a ragged breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was the mage, no doubt, but Fenris narrowed his eyes. Those who wielded the power of mages rarely stooped so far down into the slums, healing sick children without thought of coin. What did this mage hope to gain from such a thing?

The mage then noticed them in the doorway, for faster than Fenris expected he leapt away from the wall, his hands glowing in a decidedly sinister manner as he reached for his staff. "I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation!" he shouted, an odd power heavy in his words. "Why do you threaten it?"

In a thrill of instinct borne of many years on the run, Fenris drew his sword and stood in front of Hawke. "I see only one threatening here," he snapped, and almost without his consent the lyrium brands on his skin burned with power, setting his body aflame.

"Fenris," Hawke said quietly, and she touched his elbow carefully, a placating gesture. The feel of her fingers on his skin was strange, and the shock of it startled him long enough to gain control of his sudden temper.

She turned to the mage, her expression appraising. "Are you the Grey Warden I've heard of?" she asked carefully.

"In a manner of speaking," the mage said. "If you're with the Wardens yourself, I won't go back with you."

Hawke gestured to herself, her worn armor and dulled weapons. "Do I look like a Warden to you?" she asked sarcastically.

The mage let out a long sigh. "I suppose not. I am Anders, and I guess I am the Grey Warden you've heard of."

"Then you are in possession of Grey Warden maps of the Deep Roads in this area?"

"I don't know how you could have possibly heard of that, but yes. I have the maps you're looking for."

"I'd like to buy them from you," Hawke said, reaching for her coin purse.

"No," Anders said, crossing his arms, and Fenris felt stirrings of temper boil through his veins again. This foolish mage was being obstinate for its own sake, and he had little patience for such things. He reached for his sword again, but Hawke stopped him with another pointed glance.

"Why not? Are you in no need of coin? I could certainly see that being the case, looking at the cushy setup you've got here."

Anders ignored the barb. "Why should I help you? I don't know who you are. I don't know what you intend to do with these maps. As far as I'm concerned, anyone who needs to get to the Deep Roads is either a Warden or a criminal, and you've already confessed you're not a Warden."

"So how can I prove to you I'm worthy of your Deep Roads maps?" she asked wearily.

Anders was silent for a moment, scrutinizing Hawke in a way that made Fenris extremely uncomfortable. He balled his shaking fists at his side and tried to ignore the stirrings of panic that bloomed in his gut. "If you want my maps, you'll have to do something for me. A favor for a favor, right? Are we agreed?"

For half a second, Fenris feared that Hawke would agree to the apostate's favor without first learning what it was, but he needn't have worried. "I'd like to know what you want from me, first," Hawke said.

Anders crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. "A friend of mine has been taken by the Templars. I'd like your help freeing him."

"And why would he have been taken by the Templars? Is he a mage?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," Hawke and Fenris spoke at the same time, different degrees of irritation coloring their voices.

"It shouldn't matter! He is a good man! He doesn't deserve to be caged by the Templars."

"It does matter what he's done- is he a blood mage? Has he used his powers to control or hurt people? I'd say those are good reasons to keep him away from the rest of the world," Hawke said carefully.

"He is not a blood mage! He is a good man, as I've said." Hawke opened her mouth to retort, but the mage cut her off first. "These are my terms. If you want my maps, this is what you must do for me."

Hawke sighed, and then turned her back on the belligerent mage, leaning close to Varric. "Are these maps absolutely necessary?"

"Afraid so," the dwarf said, shrugging. "I don't like it any better than you do, Hawke."

With a frown, she regarded the mage with wary acquiescence. "We'll go with you to see this friend of yours, but I won't help you until I'm sure he isn't a danger."

Anders nodded, satisfied. "We'll go now," he said quickly. "Unless you have something better to do?"

"Sadly, no," Hawke said. "Let's go."

The Chantry had long ago been the home of a Tevinter magister, one of the many that oversaw the City of Chains. The architecture was familiar to Fenris; Danarius' home was constructed in a similar manner, the building all cruel juts and faces stretching toward the sky like a broken spine. It sent malevolent shivers down Fenris' neck; it seemed no matter how far Fenris ran, he would never be able to escape the vestiges of Tevinter. How they loomed, like watchful ghosts, waiting for the inevitable moment of weakness to strike, to wrest away the half-freedom he'd stolen.

The mage led them through the dark streets of Hightown without speaking, which suited Fenris. He hardly knew this mage, but every word out of his snidely curling mouth sent a hot wave of dislike coursing through him. Aside from the fact that he was a mage, his demands of Hawke put him on edge. They knew nothing about this mage they crept through the city to save, and they knew nothing about the mage that led them now. Nothing, aside from the inarguable fact that a mage is always bound to turn, regardless of his intentions.

And if he was honest with himself, the dwarf's insistence on gaining those maps by any means necessary was also wearing on his patience. Surely nothing was worth willing collaboration with these mageling criminals.

"Keep quiet," Anders instructed them, and Fenris bit back an angry retort; they hadn't been speaking! How could they be any quieter? He caught Hawke's gaze, and she rolled her eyes. It pleased him to realize Hawke was just as irritated with the mage as he was.

They sprinted up the steps of the Chantry, and after checking the area for guards, Anders pulled the giant bronze doors open wide, holding them ajar as they slipped into the darkness within. With a quick shake of her head, Hawke pulled the doors closed behind them.

Inside, the Chantry was still as a tomb. Flickering torches cast a weak light on the floors, but Fenris did not squint to see through the gloom. He watched as Hawke followed the mage on close heels through the somber room, her hands never far away from her blades. Though he did not know much of her yet, he was growing to trust that she'd never let herself be taken off guard.

"There!" Anders said, pointing. "There's Karl." Hawke opened her mouth to restrain the mage but he shucked out of her grasp and sprinted up the stairs to the mage, who stood with head bowed over flickering prayer candles. He touched the man's shoulder tentatively. "Karl?"

"I knew you'd come, Anders," the mage said in an oddly detached voice, utterly devoid of inflection. "I know you too well." He turned slowly, and Fenris heard Anders gasp; even in the low light, the brand of Tranquility was stark on his brow.

"No!" Anders cried, taking the man by the shoulders and shaking him desperately, as if hoping to rattle the soul loose.

Karl was unaffected. "Please don't shake me," he said in a hollow voice.

"Why did they do this to you?" Anders demanded, his longer fingers curling into the older man's shoulders.

"I was too rebellious," Karl explained dispassionately. "They found a letter I wrote to you, and it was determined I should be made Tranquil for my own safety."

In that moment, Anders' grief seemed to go beyond words. His hands grew tighter on Karl's shoulders, and the other man squirmed in discomfort.

"I don't think freedom would mean much to him now," Hawke said slowly. "We should go."

"We can't leave him like this!" Anders cried, fixing her with desperate eyes.

"As I understand it, there isn't anything you can do to reverse being made Tranquil," Hawke said sadly.

"If only I had gotten here sooner," Anders said softly, taking his friend by the shoulder and bowing his head. "Maker . . ."

Behind them came the sound of muted footsteps, and Hawke spun, furious. "Your friend gave us up," she hissed. She pointed to the stairs, where a small contingent of Templars had gathered, their expressions hidden by their full helms.

"There's the mage," the leader said. "Take him alive. The Knight-Commander does not care for the others."

A sound like a crack split the air, and a strange metallic voice burst from Anders' lips, rising to a booming screech. Fenris' blood turned to ice; in the cry of fury that came from the mage, the metallic inflection of possession, of demonic influence permeated it. He watched Anders with horror as the raw Fade flowed over his skin and lit him from within, a tainted illumination. "NO!" the demon shrieked using Anders' mouth. "YOU WILL NEVER TOUCH ANOTHER MAGE!"

Before anyone could do anything, the demon surged forward toward the Templars, grasping Anders's staff with white knuckled hands. He didn't speak again, but arcane power surged from him in a fearsome explosion- he spun a ball of dark fire in his hands and then hurled it towards the gathered Templars. Before they could even move they were incinerated to ash, their screams still thick in the still air.

"What have you done?!" Hawke whispered.

Anders opened his mouth to speak when they noticed Karl, staring at them all with eyes unclouded by the familiar torpor of Tranquility. "What did you do, Anders?"

Slowly the glow of possession faded from Anders' skin, and when he turned to look at them all, his eyes were clear. "I- I don't know."

"For a moment, I could see it," Karl muttered. "Your voice. It was like a whipcrack across my soul. As if you are now a part of the Fade yourself."

Anders drew closer to his friend. "Are you – are you cured?"

Karl's head whipped back and forth, an agitated beast. "I feel it fading – the pieces of me you brought back. Please!" His hands shot forward, clenching Anders' robes in his fists. "Please kill me."

Anders drew back. "No!"

"I don't want to live as a husk," Karl wept. "A thrall for the Templars. Please do this for me."

And those small words seemed to have decided Anders. Before any of them could protest, he drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it hilt deep into Karl's heart. The older mage gasped before he sank to the floor, and even after he died his sightless eyes stared up through the walls to the etched ceiling.

No one moved in the sudden silence that hung over their heads like a blade. Hawke's stared at the mage with open mouthed shock and horror that mirrored Fenris' own. "What have you done?" she hissed. "What- what are you?"

"He is an abomination," Fenris snarled. He should have known what this mage was! "He is dangerous."

Without the glow of active possession, the mage seemed somehow diminished, as if the demon inside him fed even now. "You're wrong," he said heatedly. "Justice is not a demon. He's a spirit of the Fade."

"A pathetic excuse! You saw with your own eyes what he became!" he said to Hawke, gesturing furiously toward the mage.

"Speak plainly- what is it you want me to do?" she rounded on him.

Incredulous disbelief rendered him mute for half a moment, and he stared at her with growing betrayal. How was it that she didn't consider killing this creature, this abomination? He had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was depraved; his first instinct had been to kill his friend, and he had utterly destroyed the Templars at the behest of the demon that lived in him! He was a dangerous beyond belief, and it was made all the more potent by the fact that the demon lay in wait, uncontrollable and insidious. "He is a danger!" Fenris hissed; it was all he was able to say.

"The Templars would have killed us, Fenris," she said quietly.

"I think we should continue this conversation elsewhere," Varric offered, casting his gaze over his shoulder. "We did just murder a score of Templars. And a Tranquil mage."

"'We' didn't do anything; this mage brought their wrath upon us!" Fenris snarled.

"Be that as it may, we need to get out of here. Now," Varric insisted, turning to leave. With an indecipherable expression, Hawke followed, the abomination fast on her heels.

Fenris did not hesitate; he sprinted through the dim halls of the Chantry and out into the still night, but instead of following Hawke and the others toward the Hanged Man, he veered off into the direction of Danarius' mansion, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be alone with his anger and the odd feeling of betrayal that festered in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

He simmered in his anger for a day, sneaking out only in the morning for food and other sundry. He remained undisturbed, perhaps because now the others feared him for his indiscriminate temper. Or perhaps they had forgotten about the odd elf with the glowing lyrium burned into his skin, with the fierce hatred of mages. He couldn't decide if that was what he now wanted.

Despite his best efforts, betrayal curled in his gut and clouded his thoughts as the hours passed. It was foolish, he knew. For one thing, they had known each other for barely two weeks, and in that time, he couldn't expect to know her at all. He had created something in his mind and the true Hawke could not live up to it. Inexplicably, foolishly. He was no better than that boy Danarius had bought and molded in his image, still naive enough to believe in justice and mercy, still foolishly convinced of his status as a person.

She had stayed her hand. She had refused to rid the world of that abomination of a mage because of some misguided sense of debt. He didn't doubt the Templars would have tried to kill them but the question was would they actually have been able to succeed? Fenris knew they would not have. His skills alone would have kept them alive. However he didn't appreciate being made to fight the law for having the good sense to fear a powerful mage, a mage currently sharing his body with a demon.

Perhaps most galling of all was despite her appalling mercy, he could not remove her from his mind. She was fascinating and beautiful, and though he knew he should move on from the city, he found he could not. He . . . didn't want to, despite it all.

He knew he should have left by now. He had left Tevinter just as much to escape the depravity of mages as he had to secure his freedom, and yet everywhere he went magic continued to hound him like a cancer, a curse bred into his very skin. Even now, years after the branding, he still suffered. At times his head would ache with a metallic pain, and he would taste blood on his tongue. Every now and then it felt as if his bones themselves could no longer bear the weight of muscle and flesh, and he would fall to pieces. In addition to all of this, he did not have the skill or patience to endure companions who willingly collaborated with dangerous mages, especially ones who were possessed. Not after all he'd seen in Tevinter.

And yet, he could not leave. He could not abandon Hawke to bear the brunt of her foolish trust in the mage. What his reasons were, he did not know.

He heard someone fumbling with the front door, and before he was consciously aware of it, he had sprinted down to the foyer, a long dagger in hand. The door creaked open and a shadowy figure stepped through on careful feet; with a snarl, he thrust the point of his blade under the offender's neck.

"Speak your business or die," he hissed, the lyrium setting his skin aflame.

"Are you so angry with me you'd cut my throat?" a haltingly familiar voice breathed, and Fenris saw Hawke's face thrown into pale relief from the dim glow of his skin. A strange surge of desire flooded through him at her proximity and her aching beauty, and he took a step back, drawing his blade away from her pale neck.

"Not quite," he allowed, though his voice was harsh. "Come in, then."

She stepped into the mansion carefully, and Fenris closed the door behind her, sheathing his dagger after some hesitation. "Have you been here all this time?" she asked carefully.

"Where else would I go?" he asked as they scaled the steps to the room he favored.

She shrugged. "I thought you would have left."

How is it that she seemed to know his thoughts and impulses already? "I considered it," he said, glancing at her sideways.

Hawke sat carefully in front of the fire, holding her fingers up to its warmth, and she was silent for a moment, seemingly mesmerized by the crackling of the flames. But she turned to him, and her grey eyes reflected oddly in the light. "So why didn't you leave?"

He had no real answer for her; at least, none that he was ready to give. "I don't know. I'm tired of running, I suppose." It was a portion of the truth, at least.

She nodded; she understood this. The silence between them stretched long, and he watched the firelight play on her features, the curve of her cheek, the angle of her nose. An errant thought chased its way through his mind; what would it be like to touch those cheeks?

"I'm sorry," she finally said. "I won't pretend to understand why you despite mages, but I will be more careful of it in the future."

"Am I to take your apology as confirmation that the abomination still lives?" he asked bitterly.

"He does . . . for now." A wry smirk turned her lips. "According to him, the demon that lives in him in a spirit of justice, and a friend. The spirit cries out for retribution and is roused into vengeance at the injustice that the mages suffer."

"And you believe him?" Fenris asked, leaning forward.

She shrugged again. "It's almost too fantastic not to believe, don't you think? I think a lie would be a little less ambitious."

"You give him too much credit."

"Perhaps," she allowed easily. "For now, I need him. I need his maps, and he's decided he won't allow us to use them unless he comes with us during our expedition."

Fenris scowled. "His demands are arbitrary. I don't trust him."

"I don't trust him either," said Hawke, and when she smiled at him an odd thrill ran through his gut. "What I see so far doesn't exactly endear me to him. But he could surprise me; stranger things have happened."

"People don't surprise me," he said slowly, watching his hands folded in his lap. Better to stare at them than to stare at her.

"How sad," she said. "You mean everyone is as terrible as you assume they are?"

"Maybe I don't assume they are terrible. Maybe everyone is as wonderful as I initially assume."

"Ah, so you're the optimistic type. Yes, I can see it now. Your cheeriness is absolutely grating, you know."

"I will endeavor to exist with less offense," he said with a small smile.

"Best of luck," she said, eyes dancing, and he found himself mesmerized by the lightness of her gaze, her easy laughter and camaraderie, despite all he had done the previous night. He leaned forward then, suddenly curious.

"Why do you need this expedition? If it was up to me, I'd pursue something that didn't put me in the path of a possessed mage with a temper," he wondered aloud, watching her face carefully.

She was silent for a moment. "If I only had to worry about myself, I probably would find something less risky to invest in. As it is . . . I have to. My mother lives in a hovel with my miser of an uncle, and Bethany, I don't know. I worry about her. Perhaps this will sound silly to you, but in the end, I'm doing this so I can buy a better life for them, one they deserve. My mother hasn't been the same since-" she said, and then stopped, her expression one of pain.

"Since?"

"Since we came to Kirkwall," she said quickly, the familiar smirk turning her lips, but Fenris had the feeling that hadn't been what she originally meant to say.

"I don't think your reasons are silly," Fenris said finally, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "If you're telling the truth, that is."

"And you think I'd lie to you?" she asked cheekily.

"I could see you being a liar, yes."

But she laughed, her eyes dancing. "I'm a decent liar. I choose not to, though."

"Isn't that a lie?"

"Maybe," she hedged. She watched him speculatively, the firelight playing off her expression. "I like you, Fenris. I hope you'll continue to work with me."

The boldness of her claim caught him off guard, and the room felt suddenly warm and airless as she watched him, waiting for his answer with a charming smile on her face. But he did not betray the tumult of his reaction so easily. "You say what's on your mind, I'll give you that," he allowed.

"So is that a yes?"

He took in a slow breath. "For now. You're so eager to trust bloodthirsty mages that it would benefit you to have the services of one knows how to deal with them."

"And I'm to understand that would be you, correct?"

A small smile turned his lips almost of its own accord. "Correct."

"Then we have a deal," she said, clapping her hands together. "Thank you."

"Not at all."

She let out a small chuckle. "Would it be ridiculous to say you won't regret this?"

"It would indeed be ridiculous, but I'll allow it," he said, and he took a small pleasure in the ease of her smile, the light of her eyes as she watched him from across the room. There was a sense of camaraderie between them, and a strange kind of intimacy in this easy conversation. There was an understanding, and as he watched her skin color at his stare, a kind of desire?

She stood suddenly, her smile suddenly awkward. "I should probably go," she explained, her hands fluttering awkwardly.

"Yes," was all he could think to say, and he cursed himself at how unfriendly and foolish he sounded.

But she laughed - that laugh so like music, so odd and astounding - and as she looked up at his through her lashes he felt his foolish heart falter. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Meet at the Hanged Man?"

"Yes," he said again, getting to his feet.

She waved to him then, an awkward and yet charming motion, and moved from the room almost too quickly, disappearing into the shadows outside. He heard her open and close the front door quickly, and it was only after she was long gone that he was aware of exhaling.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Thanks and cookies to Lady Silq Ice, Judy, Blackheart214, Danyal, Kizume AW, Lioba, Astoria Blues, Primary, Acerbus Wings, Blah, sweetestcondition, themusicalmuffin, shewolf51, Telelli, and musicallie for your amazing and awesome reviews and to everyone else who has faved and followed this story! Your support is amazing!**

**Wow, I've broken a lot of personal records with this story- most people following and faving, and I broke my personal record for story visitors- AWESOME! Thanks again everyone!**

**I always wanted there to be more family moments in DA2, so I've tried to add some in this chapter especially. I hope you all enjoy!**

**Do you have comments? Critiques? Random observations? Your favorite flavor of ice cream? Leave me a review and tell me about it! Thanks everyone :D**

The next weeks were a departure for Fenris. In recent years he had grown accustomed to operating on his own, sneaking from place to place, always hidden, always ready to cut and run at the slightest indication of trouble. The relentless pursuit his master's slavers kept him on his guard, and he was not comfortable relaxing that guard. He couldn't remember the last time he had spent more than a few days in a place, and yet the weeks passed more or less without incident in the City of Chains.

Perhaps even more alarming, he found himself growing accustomed to being a part of a group. Fenris had not been in the habit of forming bonds and alliances with others; moving from place to place kept personal relationships at bay and through his desperate flight, he had learned that things were better if he relied solely on himself. His isolation made him harder to track, so he kept his solitude for many years without complaint.

Yet despite his defensive nature, he found that becoming a part of Hawke's 'merry band of misfits', as she charmingly called them, was much easier than he would have ever imagined.

Fenris was disconcerted by this, and he spent his idle hours trying to justify such an unforgivable breach of proven habit. There was strength in numbers, he told himself. There was a defensive merit to keeping the kind of company he now kept, for Hawke and her companions were nothing if not devilishly skilled. Hawke herself was as likely to cut a thief's throat as she was to smile at him, and often her charm got her way more than her undeniable skill with her blades. Her sister Bethany was proficient for a mage, and surprisingly principled and earnest. Aveline the guardswoman and Isabela the pirate could more than handle themselves, and for all his boasting no one but a miser could deny Varric's mastery with his crossbow.

There was also comfort in the routine, he begrudgingly admitted to himself. Every morning Hawke would be at his door, an eager smile on her face as the dawn light caught at her hair, and from that moment of breathless greeting, they would work most of the day. Hawke took many assignments for coin she needed for Bartrand's expedition, and Fenris was fast learning that no task was beneath her.

In the last weeks, she had tracked a missing Orlesian woman for her disgusting husband, searched for and found a missing mage boy abducted by slavers, and cleansed a mine of a nest of dragons all with the same clever smirk and light step, as if these tasks were typical. And though he protested, she never failed to press a fair percentage of the profits into his hands.

"You're a part of this," she would say to him. "You deserve a fair share."

After whatever job they tackled during the day, every night without fail Hawke and her companions would congregate at the Hanged Man for drinks and tales, provided by Varric, of course. The evening would pass all too quickly, with Varric and Isabela attempting to outdo each other with their stories, with Aveline the guard-captain observing the proceedings with a steely and stoic eye. Bethany would gravitate closer and closer to Anders, who seemed mostly oblivious to her interest. And at the center, there was Hawke; reclining easily in her chair, a mug of ale clasped in her hands.

Fenris had thought the more he knew of her, the less fascinating she would seem to him, but he was wrong. Every time she laughed out of nowhere, he found himself wondering desperately what she found so amusing. Every time her eyes darted away, shadows of pain crossing them, the need to understand what filled her with such unease and grief would consume him. And every time she spoke, he found himself hanging on to her every word, as if each one brought him one step closer to finally understanding her.

He had thought exposure to this strange woman would dull his reaction to her, but nothing could be further from the truth. As the days progressed, he found himself more and more intoxicated by her mere presence. The careless tumble of her hair across her shoulder, the stark angle of her nose, the curve of her cheek all tormented his thoughts, to say nothing of her character, which he found endlessly confounding.

He had begun to dream of her. For as long as he remembered, his dreams contained only memories of the pain that marked the start of his life as a creature of lyrium. If he was lucky, there would be nothing while he slept, and he would wake none worse for the wear. But now, images of her filled his dreams, and hanging above it all was a desperate want, a desire that was becoming impossible to ignore.

He was free, yet still a slave. He did not meet her eyes unless she spoke to him first, and even then it was a struggle to maintain her gaze. He constantly caught himself standing when she did, rushing to open doors for her. She was nothing like Danarius, not in body or character, but still his old master's words echoed in him every time he looked at Hawke and felt that traitorous fascination well in him. He could not want, could not need, could not desire. Touch was dangerous - touch was pain. He was safer alone.

* * *

As Fenris stepped lightly from his Hightown mansion, the cool morning air kissed his skin, ruffled his hair. The sun had not yet risen, and the horizon was pale with the promise of sunrise. Fenris found himself watching the sky for longer than was necessary, and with a shake of his head he set out to Lowtown. The relative ease of his life here had begun to dull his survival instinct. In the years he had fled the slavers, he had never once cast his eyes to the sky, appreciating the way the dawn slowly colored the horizon, the way a painter spreads color over a blank canvas.

Perhaps he had Hawke to thank for that.

Last night before they had all left the Hanged Man (some more drunk than others), Hawke had asked Fenris to meet her at her uncle's home in the morning, and for some reason, the request filled him with more apprehension than he would that thought possible. He had barely slept, finally chalking it up to a lost cause a few hours before the dawn. He spent the rest of the night pacing restlessly through the mansion, pausing only to stare into the fire.

Lowtown perpetually stank of smoke and ash. Little bits of dirt and debris fluttered down like gritty snow, swirling in the high winds and bathing Lowtown in a permanent layer of grime. The foundry was not far so the churning of fire and metal was a constant undercurrent to the cacophony of insistent merchants and desperate peasants milling around the commons.

It was early enough that the merchants had only just set up their stalls, their eyes puffy from lack of sleep. They watched Fenris' progress through the alleyways and streets of Lowtown with poorly concealed interest, and he purposely ignored them. He was aware how he looked to others; his freakish markings precluded stealthy passage for him, but he had long since come to terms with this. Intimidation often served his purposes better, anyway.

Gamlen Amell's home was hardly more than a hovel; the door was rusted many times over, and Fenris suspected that when it opened, the creaking was loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Gangs had covered the filthy stone of the home with sloppily painted symbols, clumsily marking this home as part of their territory, and Fenris felt a surprising pity. Though the mansion he lived in was a filthy, dilapidated mess, this tiny home was many times worse.

He approached the door apprehensively, pausing on the final step. Should he knock? Should he wait outside for the sisters to emerge? Odd curiosity of Hawke's home filled him, and with it came a sense of shame. He wasn't nosy, or at least he had never thought of himself as nosy before he met Hawke, and he wasn't about to start nosing now.

But he needn't have worried. A well-worn face peeked out at him through a filthy window and then in the next second the door flew open, creaking as loudly as Fenris suspected it would. There stood a woman who was startlingly familiar; it was only after half a second that Fenris realized this must be Hawke's mother. They had the same heart shaped face, the same austere nose, light filled eyes in the exact stunning shade of grey; though her mother's were considerably more lined at the corners. "You must be Fenris," she said with a friendly smile. "Why don't you come in?"

Fenris coughed nervously. "I-thank you," he managed, stepping over the threshold with an odd pang of feeling.

"I must apologize for my daughters. They aren't early risers," Hawke's mother explained, and then laughed at herself. "Goodness, where are my manners? My name is Leandra."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Fenris said sincerely, and it was.

"Likewise," Leandra smiled. "Have you eaten?"

He hadn't; Fenris had spent most of the morning pacing, and by the time he was in Lowtown he had realized he had forgotten completely about breakfast. But he shook his head. "I don't wish to impose."

"Nonsense. I'll make you something real quick," she said, and then bustled away. "Please, have a seat," she called over her shoulder, and Fenris took a careful seat at a threadbare table.

With an irritated sigh, Leandra strode to a closed door and pounded on so forcefully that it rattled in its flimsy frame. "Wake up! Fenris is here!" she shouted through the door, and a chorus of sleepy groans came in response.

He watched Leandra work in the tiny kitchen, observing her steady hands as she moved from task to task. There was something so strange and familiar about her movements, the tenderness of her routine, the little tune she hummed under her breath as she worked, and Fenris realized belatedly that his own mother must have done much the same things, many years ago.

He had no real memory of his family, but he knew for certain that he had one. A mother, at least. He purposely kept thoughts of his forgotten family of ghosts from his mind, but sometimes he wondered about them. If they were alive, if they were slaves. If they were hurt or sick. He wondered about the life he had with them before he was given to Danarius' service; if they had all worked together under one household, or had he been sold and separated from them many years before he lost his memory.

Sometimes, he wondered what his own mother had been like. What had she looked like? Was she meek or bold? Strong or weak? Had she fought for her son or did she let him pass to Danarius without protest? Fenris was nothing if not pragmatic; he knew that more than likely, his mother had been like any other slave of Tevinter; obedient, meek, obsequious. She had probably died young after a lifetime of being used. It was longing that made him believe he remembered her.

Leandra re-entered the room with a plate piled high with food, and she placed it before him with a kind smile. An odd feeling curled in his gut as he watched her eat her own meager portion; he knew that Hawke and her family were not well off, and such an amount of food was likely more than they could spare. He was about to protest, but the eager expression on Leandra's face made him reconsider the words. It seemed impolite to protest such a gift, so he took an ambitious bite.

"Good?" Leandra asked, her expression expectant.

Fenris didn't have the heart to tell the woman that he had never been able to taste anything, so he couldn't tell the difference. "It is," he said, and there was some truth to his words; that the meal had been made for him placed it miles above any gruel he'd been served in a tavern or the like. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble," Leandra said.

Almost as if on cue, Hawke burst from the other room. Her hair haloed her expressive face, curling in disarray around her ears, and her eyes were puffy from sleep. "Ah, Fenris, I'm sorry," she said in a rush. "I forgot I asked you to meet me this morning."

Fenris expertly suppressed the wave of dismay he felt; her request had kept him awake most of the evening. Leandra had a similar reaction, to his surprise. "Marian!" she admonished.

"What? I'm sorry!" she said, her eyes pleading. "Make it up to you?"

The idea of Hawke owing him something was a little more attractive than it should be. Fenris cleared his throat. "Your mother made me breakfast, so I'd say we're even."

Hawke grinned. "Speaking of; is there any left for me, Mama?"

Leandra sighed in an exasperated way, but her eyes were light. "Save some for your sister."

Hawke grinned and disappeared for half an instant before emerging again, with a meager plate of food for herself. Fenris felt another wave of guilt as he took in the size of Hawke's breakfast, hardly enough to sustain her. Leandra had so obviously served him more than she could spare for her family, and he had to repress the urge to offer his plate to Hawke.

Hawke craned her head into the bedroom, her features twisting with irritation. "If you're not ready in two minutes, I'm leaving without you!" she called before striding toward the table and plopping down with her small plate of food.

"Good, eh?" she asked of Fenris, and he nodded again. "I'm blessed with a mother who is not only a fabulous cook, but also a magnanimous example of patience and beauty."

"Is there something you want, dear?" Leandra asked, with the long-suffering patience of a martyr.

Hawke clutched her chest in mock-pain. "Must I have an occasion to dote on my wonderful mother?"

"Hmph!" was the only reply Leandra offered as gathered Fenris's empty plate and took it to the kitchen. The clatter of dishes echoed from the kitchen, almost as if in agreement.

Fenris found himself watching Hawke eat, biting back a small smile. It was just as she did everything else, completely without abandon. Each bite far too large for her mouth, chewing with animated verve. She notice him watching her and instead of looking away she grinned, even with her mouth stuffed with food. Charming, ridiculously so.

Bethany stumbled out of the door, looking even more sleep-worn than Hawke had. Hawke fixed her sister with a teasing grin. "You better hurry, Bethy. I'm going to leave without you."

The younger girl grabbed a small chunk of bread from the kitchen and stood by the door, resolutely crossing her arms over her chest. "Not a chance. You're not leaving me behind this time."

Hawke flashed her sister that quicksilver grin and leapt up from her seat, plate in hand. She dumped it into the washbasin and kissed her hassled mother on the cheek. "Bye, Mama. Now behave while we're away, or I shall be very cross."

"Behave-" Leandra began before calling out to the retreating sisters. "Take care of your sister!" she hollered before bringing the back of her hand to her brow. "It was nice to meet you, Fenris," she said.

"Likewise," he said. He bowed to her before turning to catch up with the sisters, already a good ways down the street by now.

Hawke turned when he caught up with them, her brows furrowed slightly. "I am sorry, Fenris. I think I was a bit drunk last night, and I just . . . forgot."

"You were more than a bit drunk, as I remember," he said, keeping the smirk off of his face only through great effort.

"Ah, the details. I'm a big picture kind of gal," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Anyways, we're off to the Blooming Rose today."

Fenris lifted a brow. "The brothel? You're bringing your sister to the brothel?"

"We're leaving her outside," Hawke said with a wink.

"You are not!" Bethany protested.

They continued to bicker as they made their way up the winding streets toward Hightown and Fenris lost himself in his thoughts. As he watched the sisters jibe each other good-naturedly, he realized the odd pit in his stomach was very much like longing, perhaps even jealously. For as long as he could remember, he had always been alone, and while there was safety in solitude, there was still a small part of him that longed for his family, at least for their fate. As he watched the Hawke sisters bicker and chat, he wondered; had he ever had a sister? A brother? Had they gotten along?

"Is Anders coming with us today?" Bethany asked hopefully, looking around as if hoping to see the gangly mage come from around a corner.

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Is this the only reason you want to come with me anymore? To get a glimpse of the doc?"

"Hardly!" Bethany retorted.

"You sure? I've seen the way you look at him. Fenris too. Right Fenris?"

Fenris cleared his throat awkwardly. "I - don't -"

"Oh, you wretch. Fine. But you know it's not like that. You always leave me behind on your adventures, Mari. I don't like being left behind."

Fenris watched Hawke's expression shift almost imperceptibly from one of good humor to one of pain, like a flash of lightning, before it was gone. "They aren't really adventures, Bethy. It's work, and most of the time, it's unpleasant."

"I can take care of myself," Bethany said, irritated.

Hawke did not speak for a good ten paces. "I know," she finally said before clearing her throat, as if to change the subject. "If anyone touches you in the brothel, make sure you call for me, all right?" she said, and below the cheer in her voice was an odd note of desperation.

Bethany rolled her eyes in a manner very much like her sister. "Sure."

The Blooming Rose was quite popular with the populace of Kirkwall, for the nobles and peasants alike, and second in acclaim only to the Hanged Man. Madame Lucine governed the brothel with an iron fist; equal measures enticing and firm. The rumor was that she had been a brothel girl herself in years gone by, but with cleverness and a steely grit, she had wrested control of the brothel for herself, and had since managed it for going on thirty years.

As they pushed through the finely polished oak door, the dim light of the Rose welcomed them, along with the sickly sweet scent of incense and roses. Though it was morning, already the Rose was full of patrons and brothel girls alike, the latter wearing clothes that left little to the imagination. They watched Hawke move through the room with narrowed eyes and pursed lips; it was obvious she was not here for entertainment but for business.

A homely girl stood hunched over the ledgers, her odd face pinched in frustration as she penned in the latest clients. She saw Hawke and made to leave, but Hawke was too fast. She approached the odd girl, smoothly blocking the route of her escape with a sardonic smile.

"Going somewhere?" she asked in a light voice, with a hint of threat underneath.

"Yes. You're in my way," the girl said coldly, but Hawke did not move.

"You do work here, yes?"

The girl did not miss the insult. "You're no prize yourself, honey."

Fenris found he had to disagree. Though perhaps Hawke's beauty would make her unpopular in a brothel, she was infinitely more appealing than the girls who worked here.

"Now, now," Hawke said easily, unruffled. "No need to be rude, is there? I'm here about the missing Templars."

"I don't want any trouble," said the girl, holding up her hands as if to shield herself from the interrogation.

"Good. Then answer my questions."

The girl swallowed. "Aye, then. Ask your questions so I can get back to work."

"What is your name?"

The girl hesitated; she obviously did not want to give up any means of identification. Due to fear of Hawke, or fear of something else? "Viveka," she finally said, staring at her shoes.

"The Templars Wilmod and Keran were in here a few days ago. Who did they see?"

Viveka backed toward the ledger, flipping the pages hastily with shaking fingers. "Wilmod last saw Idunna, the Exotic Wonder of the East," she said, and there was a trembling note of fear in her harsh voice. At Hawke, or at Idunna? Fenris found this girl's manner odd, and he suspected this Idunna had something to do with it.

"There, now. Was that so hard?" Hawke said with an easy smile.

Viveka didn't respond, instead making a hasty retreat without a second backward look. The easy smile slid off Hawke's face as she watched her escape, and she turned to Fenris. "I don't think I'm that intimidating, am I?"

"You can when you want to be," Fenris responded. "But something else is wrong."

"Blood magic, perhaps?"

"The thought had occurred to me."

Hawke frowned. "Let's go."

They wove through the addled crowd and the cramped hallways of the Rose. Idunna's room was on the far west side, so they wandered through the halls as carefully as they could. Whispers and giggles came from under closed doors, and an odd heat rose in Fenris' cheeks. It was harder to breathe here than outside; the smell of incense was even more cloying up here, and Fenris realized that it was coming from Idunna's room.

"Wait out here, okay?" Hawke asked Bethany.

"Mari, come on-"

"Please, just wait out here. I'll call for you if I need any help," Hawke said, and her grin did not quite reach her eyes.

Bethany sighed before nodding disconsolately, crossing her arms in a petulant fashion and sliding down the wall opposite the door. Hawke hesitated for half a second before pushing into Idunna's room, and Fenris did not miss her preoccupied frown.

A pale, obviously pretty girl sat on the bed, her strangely transparent eyes piercing them. Fenris coughed, for it was harder to breathe in this room than it had been in the brothel. His eye was drawn to the girl, the way the eye is drawn to splashes of darkness in extreme light. It was increasingly more difficult to collect his thoughts here; the incense drifting from a desk in the corner overpowered his thoughts. He rubbed at his watery eyes.

"Idunna, yes? Do you remember ... entertaining a Templar named Wilmod?" Hawke asked easily.

"Hmm. Wilmod . . . Wilmod. Doesn't ring any bells," Idunna said in a breathy, sensuous purr. Like the beginnings of a headache, Fenris heard her voice echo outward in his thoughts, insidious and pervasive. Whispers . . . compulsions. He shook his head like a dog shaking off water.

"Do your customers like these games?" Hawke asked, not bothering to hide her irritation now. "I know you saw Wilmod. The faster you tell me what you did with him, the faster we'll get out of your hair."

With consciously deciding to, Fenris spoke, the words forcing their way past his unwilling throat. "Perhaps . . . she doesn't know."

Hawke's eyes were wide. "What is wrong with you?" she hissed.

"I . . . don't know. Be careful," he warned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathed, slowly as he had been trained, but all attempts to throw off the compulsion were like beating his bare fists on a wall of stone.

"What are you doing?" Hawke asked angrily, stepping closer to Idunna. "Whatever it is you're doing, stop it now and answer my questions!"

Idunna regarded Hawke with a slow, sinister smile. "Aren't questions boring? Let's play a game instead," she said. "Why don't you tell me who sent you to little old me?"

Hawke opened her mouth to retort, but her answer changed. She staggered in place as if Idunna had slapped her, though Fenris saw the strange brothel girl had not moved an inch. "It-it was . . . Viveka," Hawke said in a halting voice, as if each word was dragged out of her against her will.

"Was that so hard?" Idunna crooned, stroking Hawke's cheek. This was wrong, Fenris realized - this was blood magic! The realization struck him like a physical blow, and his muddled thoughts swam with fear. He made to push the blood mage away from Hawke, but he could not move. Each muscle in his body froze, and with a grunt of anger, he toppled to the floor in a heap, completely paralyzed.

"N-no," Hawke answered in that jerky voice.

"Now, I want you to do something for me," Idunna breathed. "Draw your blade . . . and bring it gently across your throat."

Horrified, he watched Hawke slowly remove the fine throwing knife from her belt, holding it with a shaking hand at the soft, white flesh of her neck. "Hawke!" he cried , and her wide eyes darted to him, a perfect ring of white and black and grey. He saw try to draw strength from some internal wellspring, but slowly she failed. Like prying fingers off a blade. The dagger hovered, the tip of it bouncing from the shaking of her hands, drawing ever closer to her throat. He watched the blade move of its own accord, drawing a fine pink line first, then blood gushing forth like a river.

"NO!" Bethany shouted, bursting into the room, her body glowing with magic and power, hot rage in her eyes. She sent a wave of magic into Idunna, and the blood mage flew backward almost the entire length of the room, slamming into the opposite wall with so much force the sound of her skull cracking could be heard through the entire floor.

As if a spell had been lifted from them, Hawke dropped the knife and slumped to the floor, grasping at the fine wound on her neck and Fenris rushed to her, his mind blank with panic. He pushed her grasping hands away to better check the wound. It was not deep but it bled profusely and soon his hands were slick with her blood. Blood on stone, blood in the sand. Blood in his memories, always so close. There was so much blood, and she had become so pale, so limp.

Bethany hurried to her gasping sister's side, kneeling to better look at the wound. She fixed Fenris with a knowing look as he held the wound closed with shaking hands. "It's all right," she said gently, as if she saw the reason for his distress as clearly as she saw his own face. "Let me close it."

"Have you done this before?" he heard himself hissing.

Bethany nodded. "Don't worry," she soothed, speaking more to Fenris than to Hawke, who had become deathly pale, so horribly pale. She closed her eyes and her hands began to glow softly, a shimmering, ephemeral light. She held her sister's throat and as Fenris watched the wound began to recede. In only a few seconds, where once there had been a horribly gushing wound, now there was only a faint, pink scar smeared with dried blood.

Hawke sat up shakily, touching the scar on her throat. "Shit," she breathed, her trembling fingers tracing the line. "How do they get into your head?"

Fenris couldn't answer; his whole body shook with rage. If Bethany had not already killed the mage, he would have ripped out her heart himself and crushed it in his fist. Blood magic! He should have known, he should have been able to resist it. If Bethany had not been here, Hawke could have bled to death as easily as anything, and the thought was more painful to him than any wound.

Now that the danger had passed, Bethany seemed to crumble and dissolve; she threw herself into her sister's arms, shaking with unshed tears. "Don't leave me behind anymore," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I thought- like Carver-"

"Shh," Hawke said, pressing her lips together in a tight, pale line. She rubbed her sister's back before disentangling herself from her embrace. "Come on," she said, trying to inject a bit of levity into her voice, though it rang false. "Let's find what we came here to find and get out of here."

* * *

That night, the party at the Hanged Man was particularly boisterous. Hawke had regaled them all with the tale of the blood mage and her sister's heroism, and ended the story nicely with the rescuing of a young Templar reunited with his own sister. Bethany was the woman of the hour, and Varric had almost a whole keg's worth of ale sent to his suite in her honor, where the companions insisted on toasting the girl every few moments, much Bethany's embarrassment. All of Hawke's companions would never admit it to her, but the thought of losing their bright, sarcastic lady rogue was a painful one.

It was especially painful for Fenris. He wasn't jealous of the attention Bethany received; he was furious with himself for being useless, more of a liability to Hawke than anything. The memory of her lying on the floor, blood gushing through her shaking hands was a terrible one, and his blood ran cold at the thought of it. She could have died today, and for what?

Against all reason, he cared for her. Against everything that was instinct to him, he remained at her side. Though the time had come for him to move along, he couldn't bring himself to leave her. What use would that inexplicable loyalty be if he couldn't even keep her safe from a filthy blood mage? His hands clenched into tight, angry fists, and it took concentrated effort to unfurl them.

"So! Hawke! Tell us how you chipped your tooth again," Varric said, accepting a fresh mug of ale from a hassled looking Norah.

This had become Varric's favorite game by now. Every night Varric would ask the mildly inebriated Hawke how she chipped her tooth, and every night, her answer would change; the degree of believability was directly proportional to her mood and how much ale she had drunk through the course of the evening.

"Ah, yes, it's a very good story," Hawke said, grinning. "When I was a much younger girl, I was playing toss the horseshoe with King Cailan himself, when the clumsy king hit me in the face with one! He was so sorry, he granted me all the lands in Highever; though of course, this contract was drawn up in mud and rocks!"

Everyone laughed at the wildly implausible story except for Bethany, who looked at Hawke reproachfully. "Mari, that isn't how it happened," she said, and it startled Fenris to hear the confusion and hurt in the girl's voice.

"Come on, Bethy, be sporting," said Hawke. An odd flash of sadness crossed her eyes like clouds veiling the sun, before it passed.

Bethany began to retort but seemed to think better of it, for she closed her mouth and was silent for the rest of the night, even ignoring the conversation of Anders.

The party continued through most of the night, but Fenris was not interested in the revelry; after only one drink, he bid a hasty goodnight to the group before taking a quick retreat out into the open, pointedly ignoring the appraising stare of Isabela. The laughter and noise was growing tiresome, and more than anything, he found he wanted to be alone to come to terms with his failure.

He had gone quite a ways in the direction of Danarius' mansion when he heard a voice behind him. "Fenris?" It was Hawke of course, struggling to catch up to him. He watched the way the moonlight caught in her hair, and marveled that she could be beautiful even with a scar and an expression pinched with worry. "You've been especially quiet tonight. Are you well?"

Fenris stared at her, shocked that she had even noticed. "I'm fine," he said, unwillingly. It was instinct to deflect; though he wasn't used to concern or care, it made him uncomfortable regardless, and he shifted uneasily.

Hawke, clever woman, wasn't fooled. She quirked a brow at him. "Are you sure? You can tell me if something is wrong, you know. I won't think you're a whiner."

Ha! He almost laughed aloud; that wasn't at all what his concern was, and she knew it. "Well, I suppose I can rest easy now," he retorted.

She did laugh. "You're a lot funnier than people give you credit for."

"I aim to amuse."

"See? That right there, that sarcastic thing. You know how rare a good deadpan is?" she said.

"Not rare enough, apparently."

"Ah, as much as I love good banter, I know you're trying to distract me, and I refuse to be distracted," she said, waggling her finger as if to scold him. "Out with it."

It seemed like he watched her for a long time as he tried to figure out how to put his thoughts into words, watched the way the dim light of the moon caught at her cheekbone, the faint pink line that now marred her throat. "Doesn't it bother you that you almost died today?" he asked finally, driven to speak by frustration.

She looked at him oddly before shrugging. "I could worry about it, I guess. But the past is past. I could have died, but I didn't, so I don't think I should waste time worrying about it."

"I don't understand you," he finally admitted. "You're ridiculously overprotective of your sister, but you hardly care about yourself, to the point of recklessness."

"Does that bother you?" she asked in a small voice.

Did it bother him? Fenris wasn't sure. On the one hand, the extremes were endearing, fascinating, another puzzle of hers to be solved and explored. On the other, her carelessness when it came to her own life was terrifying, especially now that he cared too much to let anything happen to her. "I don't know," he said truthfully. "It bothers me that I wasn't able to do anything to help you today."

If he'd been able to, he would have stuffed those words back down his throat and choked on them. They were too open, too bare. Far too honest. He felt as if he had shouted his strange fascination from the rooftops. Hawke's eyes widened at the admission, and her cheeks grew pink. "Well, she was a blood mage. Skilled and powerful. I don't hold it against you. I fell to her influence too, remember?"

She had said the wrong thing; temper flared in his veins and he took a step forward, pointing furiously. "Would that be any comfort to me if you had died? Should my own failures in the face of such magic give me any kind of peace?"

"I suppose not," Hawke allowed. She was so near, her eyes were wide and shining, her lips slightly parted, and the sudden overwhelming urge to kiss her almost overtook him completely. He ached to take her in his arms, mold her body to his, claim her mouth for his own; he ached to feel her, touch her, taste her. But he took a faltering step away instead, mastering his desire with a quick breath.

"Forgive me. I-I will not fail you again," he said solemnly. "I must go." He nodded to her, shutting away her confused expression before turning quickly and striding up the street as fast as possible. He knew she wouldn't follow, though he wondered if she wanted to.

If he was a weaker man, he would have stayed and kissed her, he would have confessed the strange way she affected him, turned everything he had learned about people and life on its head. He would have admitted to the sudden need to protect her and keep her safe from everything in this world that would harm her. If he was a weaker man, or perhaps, if he were a stronger man, he wouldn't hesitate now, he wouldn't run away.

But he did.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Thanks and cookies to Astoria Blues, Danyal, Kolibri Halliwell, Cobalt Stars, sweetestcondition, Lioba, kalivon, Judy, shewolf51, Serenity's Melody, Telelli, and Kristanci for your amazing, fabulous and wonderful reviews, and to everyone else who has faved and followed this story! This story has gotten the most favs and follows of any story I've written thus far, and your support means so much to me!**

**Ah, lots of introspection and banter in this chapter. I'm going to be wrapping up Act I in a few chapters (we all know Act II is where it's at ;P), and I promise we're going to see some more action in the coming chapters! Bah, I like a good setup.**

**If you've read and followed along, please leave me a review and tell me what you liked or didn't like; reviews make my day! :D Thanks all, and I hope you enjoy!**

He worked alone for a few days. Tentative curiosity for the city and it's hidden places took hold, and for the first time since he'd come to Kirkwall he was compelled to move through its streets during daylight, attempting to ignore the shocked and fearful stares he elicited. He took a few small jobs; a bounty here, an escort there, and though the work was painfully simple, the coin was decent.

Was he avoiding Hawke? Perhaps. He preferred to tell himself that he was simply falling into old habits; the solitary swordsman, eking out a stolen living in another crowded city. Three years of living with pure survival as his only priority could not be so easily discarded. The habits he'd formed then were a part of him. They were the reason for his survival.

But as he worked and fought, he came to realize that he was lying to himself. In that one, heated moment, he had shown too much to an irritatingly fascinating woman. He had revealed all the cards in his hand, and his life had taught him that doing so was the most dangerous and foolish thing he could have possibly done. After this lapse it was natural for him to hide, and his self-imposed exile now was borne out of a sense of self-preservation. Of instinct.

But then why hadn't he fled the city altogether? Why hadn't he simply gathered what few belongings he had and taken to the road again? Why hadn't he become a ghost in the wilderness, as was his true instinct? It made the most intellectual sense to flee; the slavers no doubt knew of his presence here, and eventually, Danarius would mount another attempt to bring him back to the Imperium.

If he loved his freedom at all, he would flee and think nothing of it.

With a sigh, Fenris set out in the direction of the dilapidated mansion. He hesitated to call it home. Though it was surely the longest he had lived in any one place since he escaped from Danarius, it was merely a place to sleep, a place to hide. A place to set out from and return to when the day was done. Did that make it a home? Fenris didn't know. He'd never known a place to call home in his memory; perhaps he had known one once, before he'd been scoured by the lyrium.

Silently, he slipped through the front door into the darkness within, his feet treading the familiar patterns of cracked tile and dirt. Dim light shone from the windows above, bathing the room in the pale glow of the moon. He didn't move for a moment, instead turning to watch the sky, the stars peeking through patches in the clouds.

He was restless. Though he had spent most of the day guarding a member of the dwarven Merchant's Guild through a particularly sensitive deal, the job was not sufficiently taxing, and instead of weariness, he felt alert, ill at ease. In the distance he could hear the gulls crying for scraps as they circled the docks, watching the fishermen move their haul from ship to shore. An odd longing settled over him at the sound, as if it inspired some forgotten memory, some facet of his life that lurked beyond the murky veil of his thoughts.

He needed a drink.

Though he could not taste the alcohol (or anything, for that matter), he was more than able to feel its effects. He'd never really indulged in drink during his desperate flight from the Imperium; there was never a time where he didn't need to be totally alert, able to fight and run at a moment's notice, and the touch of liquor dulled more than his instincts. But as long as he was staying in this wretched city at the beck and call of the Lady Hawke, he might as well let his guard down fully. When Fenris did anything, it was never half-heartedly.

So he strode down to the cellar, searching for an especially potent vintage. It had been many years since any magister of slave tended to this place. Piles of filth lurked in every corner, and the bottles were long caked with dust at least an inch thick, but their stoppers were tight, and the liquid within was unspoiled. He carried an armful of bottles up the stairs to his room, walking carefully so as to avoid tripping.

The fire crackled cheerfully, flames licking and dancing against the walls, casting long shadows. Fenris settled the bottles carefully on the table and without bothering to check the seals, popped open the nearest stopper with his teeth, almost draining it in one pull. The scent of the vintage within was oddly sweet, tickling his nostrils. He felt the effects of the alcohol almost immediately. Warmth spread from his face, through his fingers and toes and he reclined in the chair facing the fire. An odd sense of wellbeing and of futility mingled easily within him; the bottle dangled loosely from his negligent fingers.

His mind wandered as he watched the fire. He thought of Danarius, as he usually did in his unguarded moments. He thought of his heavy hand, his cruel stare, the many years he suffered under his abuses and cruelties. A misplaced gaze, one second of hesitation when answering a question, one clumsy moment with his greatsword, and his punishment would be swift and sure at Danarius' hands.

He hadn't thought of freedom, until the Fog Warriors. They were as they sounded; silent, deadly, sure and skilled, moving through the mists of Seheron. Though years had passed, he still remembered them, as clearly as daylight. He remembered the sounds of their voices, their battles, their home. He remembered their names.

* * *

_The battle was a fierce one. The Qunari had chased them through the jungles of Seheron for many days, and Fenris was utterly exhausted. The rains had sapped his will and his strength, and though Danarius would never admit so to his slave, he fared even worse._

_If Fenris had been allowed to do so, he would have cursed. This expedition his master had mounted was foolish at best. Danarius had ordered they travel to Seheron's war torn jungles to erect an outpost for the Imperium in order to aid their futile effort in securing the island once and for all. The stay itself had been a trial; the outpost had been constantly beset by small Qunari raiding parties. And then, a few nights ago, they had mounted an attack on such a scale that Fenris and Danarius had been lucky to escape with their lives, for none of their other comrades had._

_Fenris touched his stomach gingerly, and winced at the pain. During their flight from the outpost, a Qunari spear had wounded him, and the pain was becoming impossible to ignore. He fought a fierce wave of nausea at the contact, gritting his teeth against it. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to continue through his wounds._

_And then, the coast. The coast! Through the hard rain, Fenris saw the docks, a small, battered skiff tied fast against the chopping waves. Danarius made a sound of smug relief, and they sprinted through the last outcropping of the trees toward the dock._

_Brief, hurried words were exchanged between his master and the captain, and Danarius stepped aboard, careful not to trip on his robes. Fenris made to follow, but the captain barked a harsh negative, his brows furrowed in a straight line. The intent was clear- no slaves allowed on this last ship away from the war zone. Danarius was not pleased; he argued, spitting and cursing, and only after the captain threatened to leave him behind with his slave did he desist._

_Fenris watched them pull away from the dock, his vision swimming. He felt nothing; no betrayal, no abandonment. He was a possession, a slave. A piece of property. He had no value. Should one think anything of leaving a parcel behind during a desperate flight? Should one think anything of leaving behind an article of clothing?_

_He watched the ship depart until it vanished on the storm-tossed horizon. Likely Danarius would curse all the way back to Minrathous, where he would mount a rescue effort almost immediately. Fenris was under no misapprehension; his value as a slave and bodyguard was the only thing Danarius cared to secure. If he could save the markings and leave the man, he would do so without a second of regret._

_ The wind whipped the rain sideways, stinging his face, lashing at the open wound. __He realized dimly that he must have lost a lot of blood as he felt at his wound again. The pain was a heady thing, impossible, unmovable. He swooned, sinking into the thick mud without a sound._

_The rains continued on._

* * *

_He was first aware of luxurious heat on his skin. After months in the rain-soaked jungles, he could not remember when last he felt so dry. Tentatively, he lifted a shaking hand to his stomach, to the wound he knew was there, only to find it neatly bandaged. His eyes flew open. Above him stretched a tent made of animal skins, and a well-made fire burned in a pit in the center of the tent. It was warm, it was safe. Strange._

_"Easy," a low voice cautioned, and Fenris snapped his gaze around the room wildly for the source. A grizzled, tough stranger stood over him, an unrecognizable expression in his eye that immediately made Fenris defensive. He groped wildly for his sword, for anything he could use as a weapon, but the man held his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. "I mean you no harm," he qualified._

_Slowly, Fenris relaxed, but did not take his eyes off of the stranger. "Where am I?" he asked finally._

_"You are in Seheron, in one of the camps of the Fog Warriors," the stranger said carefully. "Are you well?"_

_Fenris stared blankly at the odd stranger. Sensing his confusion, the stranger reworded hastily. "How do you feel? Your wounds?"_

_Fenris hadn't ascertained this for himself yet. With care, he felt at the wounds, gingerly moved his arms, his legs, testing for flexibility, stiffness. "I am fit to fight," he said._

_"There is no need for that," said the stranger, that odd expression on his face again. "Not yet." He craned closer to Fenris, his expression odd and speculative. "Do you have a name?"_

_"Fenris."_

_"And I am Tan. It is good to meet you," the stranger said, and he held a fist to his heart in greeting._

_The stranger's affect was far stranger than anything else Fenris had seen in these war-torn jungles, or indeed anything he'd ever seen done by the magisters. Where they would have left him to die in the muck, this stranger and his clan risked much to save him. They wasted valuable time caring for his wounds. They wasted resources giving him food and water. Fenris made no sense of it. "Why did you save me?" _

_At this, Tan grinned. "From a distance, we thought you to be one of our own warriors. Perhaps from one of the other clans." He gestured to himself, and Fenris understood then; he was covered in warpaint in similar patterns to Fenris' own markings. "When we reached you, we realized you were not- your markings did not run in the rains . They are etched into your very skin. But you were injured, and we could not leave you."_

_"Do I belong to you, now?" Fenris asked without inflection. He suspected this strange man rescued him from the jungles in order to keep him for himself, and Fenris found he could not muster the proper care for the possibility. These situations were commonplace in the Imperium._

_But Tan shook his head. "You belong to no one, now. No one save for yourself," he said, and the odd note in his tone gave Fenris pause. It was as if the stranger felt pity on his behalf. "I will let you rest. Gather your strength," said Tan before slipping out of the tent into the rains. _

* * *

_The months passed in the jungles of Seheron, and Fenris learned. He learned how to assemble and disassemble a camp before the rains came. He learned to hunt and track with the Fog Warriors; he learned to skin and prepare his kills so that not one part would be wasted. He learned their code and signals, he learned their ethics and honor. He learned what it was to express, to share. He learned to laugh._

_Tan taught him about such strange things, impossible things. He taught Fenris about the inherent value of every man, regardless of race and occupation. He taught him about freedom and joy, honor. He taught Fenris of the love shared between brothers in arms, for brothers they were, fighting against the constant dangers of their life in the jungle._

_Fenris, for the first time in his memory, was happy. So, perhaps he should have known; for him, such happiness could never last._

* * *

Furious, agonized tears blurred Fenris's vision, and he leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands. Yes, he remembered the Fog Warriors. He remembered their honor and bravery; he remembered their goodness and friendship. He remembered all it took were the quick and slippery words of his former master to turn on them. He remembered their bodies, their discarded weapons.

He remembered Tan, his last words. Even after his life had been stolen from him in the most brutal possible way, he still had shown Fenris faith beyond measure. He did not doubt that even though he had been the one to end the Fog Warrior's life, Tan would still call him brother. His last words had been one of encouragement, ones of faith.

They had been a brand on his soul.

For all his honor and faith, Tan was wrong, even now. Three years dead and he was just as wrong as he had been that terrible day in mud-logged Seheron. Fenris was, and forever would be a slave. He would forever seek out people to obey, orders to follow. He would continue to seek ones to pledge his service too.

He thought of Hawke, her skill, her smile. How each word was a window, to a place in her that he wished to know. What was she to him? A beautiful woman? A fascinating person? Or another master whose orders he must obey?

With a grunt of anger, he hurled the wine bottle at the wall as hard as he could; it shattered in a deafening explosion of glass and wine, spattering the walls with the dark liquid. He'd shatter the whole cellar downstairs, if only to ignore the shame.

"Is now a bad time?" a voice asked, and he spun in his chair. Hawke stood in the doorway, hands interlocked behind her, one eyebrow arched at the display.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice rough as sand.

"I came to see if you were still here," she said. "I could go, if you prefer. There's a bit of wall over there that you haven't soaked with wine yet."

And despite everything, he chuckled, though it was a rueful thing. "I'd have nothing left to serve my guests."

"Fenris, entertaining guests! What a fascinating thought," she said, delighted. "Though I can't really imagine you dressed in fine clothes and making snotty conversation with the nobles."

"I can't either."

"Thank the Maker for that," she said with real warmth, and Fenris found he couldn't hold her gaze. He gestured awkwardly at the chair beside him and with an exaggerated bow, she took a seat, settling in nicely and leaning forward to warm her fingers.

"What can I do for you?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "Nothing really. I just thought you'd have moved on by now. We haven't seen you in quite a while."

"I'd taken a few jobs of my own," Fenris explained.

"I figured. Mama was worried; she wanted me to deliver some food she's made for you. She also wants to know why you never came by for breakfast again," Hawke said,

"I . . . didn't know I was expected to?" Fenris stammered, feeling suddenly as if he had failed in this expectation. Leandra had been so kind and welcoming to him, and he had repaid her poorly.

"Oh, Fenris, I was just teasing. You don't have to if you don't want to. She just wanted another excuse to dote on you. 'He's very thin, isn't he? Very lanky! I'm sure he doesn't eat enough'," she said, mimicking her mother's voice.

"No, I- I would like to. Thank you," he said, and it surprised him to realize that he was telling the truth. Despite his mood, there was something very encouraging about being invited to Hawke's as a regular guest.

She smiled that chip-toothed grin, and his stomach dropped. "You're welcome. Ah, she'll be happy now."

"I'm glad I've made a mostly favorable impression."

"Oh, you have no idea. Of all my friends, I think you're her favorite," Hawke said easily, gesturing with her hands. "It's Fenris this, Fenris that. It's becoming a bit tiresome, actually."

"And are we still talking about your mother?" he said before he could stop himself.

But she laughed. "Maybe, maybe not," she said, and she leaned back, watching him over her folded hands. "No one believes me when I say you're funny."

"I'm not funny."

"Oh, you are. Don't pretend you're not. You make me laugh."

"And are you sure you're laughing with me and not at me?"

"A question for the ages, isn't it? But, actually, I did not come over tonight for your delicious banter."

"What did you come over here for?" he said, unable to keep the wariness out of his voice.

"Well, the misfits and I are headed out into the wilds for a few errands before we head off to the Deep Roads. Mostly, I wanted to know if you'd come along."

"Any reason you want me in particular?" he blurted, and then colored at the clumsy way he worded the question.

Hawke smoothly ignored this; she leaned back in her chair again, watching the fire. "You're a skilled warrior, and I like having you around."

"And why is that?"

"Well, you're flashy. Loud. Enemies run to you, and leave their backs wide open. I can get under their guard nice and easy," she said with a roguish grin. "And I'm best when they don't see me coming."

"I believe that."

Hawke grinned in a self-satisfied way, steepling her fingertips. "I already know it; we make a good team. You charge in your flashy, glowy way, and I sneak behind and slip a dagger between their ribs. You realize we'd be undefeatable, right?"

"I do pretty well on my own," Fenris said, uncomfortable with the direction she was heading in.

"Sure, everyone does all right on their own. You're not interested in undefeatable?"

"Seems like cheating."

"Pfah! Cheating. Such an ugly word. There is no such thing when it comes to life and death, understand?" she said, and he noticed that odd trace of sadness cross her expression before fading, like clouds over sunlight.

"You may be right," Fenris allowed.

"You'll come to realize I'm always right."

He couldn't help the derisive chuckle. "That's a hard claim to prove."

"Ha! Was that a challenge?"

"Wouldn't you know if it was?"

Hawke clucked her tongue in grudging respect. "So he does know how to play. Well, come on then. Challenge me."

Fenris fixed her with a cool stare. "Very well. You know very little about me. How many of your wild guesses are on the mark?"

"This broody thing you have going might put off others, but I see through it all," she said in a faux-mystical voice, massaging her temples in an exaggerated manner. "You . . . have a dark past. A deep secret! You are slow to give your trust."

"I don't exactly make my inability to trust every random stranger a secret. And I'd say most of the people you find in Kirkwall have a dark and mysterious past," Fenris said, amused.

"So? I'm still right, aren't I? I win."

"A cheap victory."

She waggled a finger at him. "Don't be a poor sport."

"Perish the thought."

To his delight, she laughed again, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "Fenris! You have a bit of a competitive streak, don't you? Ooh, you are fun."

"Fun for whom?" he said in an artificially sour voice, secretly savoring her joy, her laughter.

"You never answered my question, you know. You distract me," she said, her lips pursing charmingly, her eyebrows pulling together, and unbidden the thought of touching those lips barreled into his thoughts, with such unexpected violence that he pulled away.

"You distracted yourself perfectly well without my help," he managed.

Her pout changed to that charming grin again, and the urge to kiss her deepened, changed. "So you'll come?"

Fenris pretended to deliberate. In truth, now that she was here, it was a lot harder to remember why he needed to stay away. It was a lot harder to agonize and worry over her role in his mind, as a master or friend, or as something more. It was easy to enjoy her brightness, her good humor. Her clever wit and charming smile. It was easier to just be near her, and it was at that moment that he came to a decision; though he knew he should run away, he wouldn't. He didn't want to, not now. He couldn't.

"I suppose I could come along, if only to provide the distraction you need," he allowed.

"I knew you wouldn't let me down," she said, and he tried to ignore the fear he felt at such a possibility. He had let those he cared down in the past, in the worst possible way. But he would be damned if he'd do it again.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Many thanks to socialkombat, Astoria Blues, Kristanci, Cobalt Stars, Procrastination Possum, shewolf51, innocenceINSTINCT, dragonlover131313, Danyal, StarrChilde, Michole, goldenight16, lioba, Lady Silq Ice, FashioninFlux, Hekateras, Acerbus Wings, Everything In Its Right Place, kalivon, Nami, 2many2count, morbus-rus, Castinc, Serenity's Melody, Cindar, Telelli, arkaex, Aenya, Sarkule, and Riverdancekat09 for your fabulous and thoughtful reviews, and to everyone else who has faved and followed this story! You guys rock.**

**I am SO SORRY for being gone for so long! I think a month is the longest it's taken me to update, and I feel super guilty. April was a crazy month- I was rehearsing/performing 15 hours a week in addition to my courseload, so I was pretty busy. Final concerts are done now, so I have more time to write (FINALLY!).**

**In the next few months I'm going to try and wrap up all my in progress fanfics (and the fanfics I have planned) since I want to have more time to devote to my original stuff. I hate leaving stuff undone, so my fanfic has priority right now! :D**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter- if you read, please leave me a review and let me know what you thought! Thanks a bunch, guys.**

"Another round of ales for my friends here," Varric called out to Norah, craning his head out into the hallway.

"How many?" came the harried reply from the waitress.

Varric turned back into his suite, counting the heads under his breath. ". . . five, six, and me. Make that seven!"

That pronouncement was met with an exasperated sigh, and the sound of a very harassed waitress thunking down the stairs echoed through the hall.

Varric laughed. "Thank you, sweetheart!"

Norah's grudging reply was lost in the din of the Hanged Man, caught up in another night of roaring trade. The sound of raucous laughter drifted up the stairs, and Fenris could have sworn he smelled the exotic smoke of Qunari pipeweed wafting through the air, which was a favorite of the pirates of Llomerryn. Already the songs had begun, hardly an hour into dusk; reels so lively it was impossible to keep still at the sound of them, ballads so tender that even the stoutest warrior wept.

Fenris' misanthropic tendencies aside, he was starting to appreciate the Hanged Man for its liveliness. When he was here, standing resolutely at Hawke's side and secretly savoring her closeness, it was harder to remember that he was a slave, and out there in the world somewhere his master lurked, waiting to claim him. It was easier to appreciate the mere beautiful fact that he was alive, and at the moment, he was perfectly content.

At Varric's behest, Hawke's allies had decided to meet at the Hanged Man for a celebration. After venturing in the wilds to deliver the amulet to the Dalish, they had finally raised enough money to set out on Varric's expedition, and such an occasion warranted an equally extravagant party. In a fit of characteristic generosity, the dwarf had ordered the finest cigars from the Anderfels and the most expensive Antivan brandy that he could afford.

The party had become just as raucous as the one downstairs. Hawke puffed on her cigar so that a ring of smoke veiled her head, the white flash of her grin only barely visible. Suitably plied with liquor and fine cigars, she regaled the group with stories, each more outlandish than the last. She and Varric traded back and forth, inserting wild details into their already unbelievable tales, and yet, her gathered companions only laughed. Even Anders, dour and dangerous Anders, spared a grin.

Fenris watched with a degree of detachment, lost in thought. Their task had been more dangerous that Hawke had initially implied. Indeed, it had not been a simply delivery of a trinket to the Dalish. Instead, the amulet in Hawke's possession had been spirited up the Sundermount for an ancient Dalish ritual, with only a blood mage as their guide.

Fenris felt himself scowl at the memory of Merrill. Naive, clueless, tampering with forces she did not understand. In his experience, a mage who turned to blood magic did not remain uncorrupted for long; it was only a matter of time before the naive elf realized the power she had at her fingers and used it to gain control.

Hawke's reaction to the blood mage was similar. In an uncharacteristic turn, the almost constant grin had slid off her face, to be replaced by a stern, hard expression. It was as she said weeks ago; she did not collaborate with blood mages, at least not willingly. Fenris had to admit feeling a small degree of relief at that.

As Norah skillfully delivered the ales, Fenris found himself wondering if perhaps his reaction to Merrill was due in part to his general disdain for the Dalish. It certainly couldn't have helped any; he had little patience for the wild elves. In his estimation, they were self-involved and tiresome; in love with their plight and content to remind the world of their status as the perpetual underdog. As a former slave, he found their pity-grasping insulting. They were not chained and made to live in servitude, nor were they stripped of their identities and lives. They were free to cling to what remained of their lore and traditions. Their lot was considerably better than that of a city elf, or an elf in Tevinter.

Yes, overall the journey to the stark peaks of the Sundermount had been an exercise in patience and control. The tiresome Dalish with their boastful unwelcome and the naive blood mage both tugged at his control, tempting the temper that boiled just beneath the surface.

To her credit, Hawke had seemed largely unaffected by the unwelcome, surveying the scene with a cheerful ambivalence. As was becoming something of an uncomfortable custom, Fenris found himself watching her more than was absolutely necessary. He wondered as he watched. He wondered how she was able to present such an ineffable face to the world, regardless of the situation. Did nothing affect her? Or was she skilled at keeping what she felt far away from the surface?

And then, of course, there had been the witch. Asha'belenar, in the tongue of the Dalish. A terror long whispered of through the countries of Thedas. It had taken him a moment to understand that the witch had come from the amulet Hawke bore, and another moment still to realize that Hawke was just as confounded as he. There had been no betrayal on her part.

Though it was a grudging admittance, he acknowledged that Hawke had given him no reason to suspect her in the months they had worked together. She was clear and forthcoming in her intentions and principles. If she hid her past from him that could be forgiven, for he guarded his own just as intensely. But she made no secret of his distrust for demons and mages. She did not hide her modus operandi, and this opened the door for trust.

Fenris marveled at his foolishness. In his life before Hawke, trust had been more than a novelty; it was a liability, a weakness. A means in which you could be trapped through expectation, and he had learned from the moment of his awakening that trust was the last thing he could afford. There had been none to trust anyway; his life was full of magisters, their apprentices, and the other slaves, who would have sold their mothers to improve their situation. Trust was folly. Trust was defeat.

And yet, in Hawke he saw everything his master was not. Where he was cold, she was warm. Where he was cruel, there was a kindness in her that he could not ignore. Where his master only took pleasure in abuse and subterfuge, she was open and bright, usually laughing in joy.

Because of this (or perhaps in spite of this), he felt an overwhelming urge to open to her. To confide in her of his past, his fears. His crimes. As he watched her laughing hysterically, surrounded by her friends, he suddenly needed to feel counted among them.

It was a strange feeling. Fenris found he couldn't decide if it was altogether unwelcome or not.

A loud chorus of laughter brought him back to the present, and his gaze snapped around the room as he searched for the source of the disturbance. It was Varric, of course. He, Hawke, and Isabela had played a rowdy game of Wicked Grace, and the boisterous dwarf had defeated his opponents in only three turns.

Hawke clutched at her sides, wheezing with laughter. "Varric, you are a knave," she accused breathlessly, gasping for air.

The dwarf clutched at his chest in mock insult. "You wound me, my lady!"

"Don't tempt me!"

Varric grinned rakishly, taking a rough swig of his ale and watching as Aveline and Anders stood to leave. "So," he said, leaning toward Hawke conspiratorially. "The expedition leaves tomorrow."

Hawke puffed on her cigar through clamped teeth. "And?"

"Are you ready?"

"I usually am."

"Heh. That you are," Varric agreed. "You thought about who you'll bring?"

"Besides you, you mean?"

Varric laughed. "I'd have thought that was obvious, Hawke."

"Well, Anders will have to join us. He refuses to give up the maps unless he comes along," she said, and blew a perfect ring of smoke. "I don't think he trusts me."

"What a ray of sunshine."

"Tell me about it. Also was hoping Fenris would come along," she said casually, glancing over to where he sat. To his dismay, his stomach jolted when he realized she was speaking to him. She watched him, hopeful expectation clear on her face.

"If you need me, I'll be there," he managed.

"Anyone else?" Varric prompted, gracefully ignoring Fenris' uncomfortable coughing.

Bethany regarded her sister with an arched brow. "I hope you weren't thinking of leaving me behind, dear sister."

Hawke didn't miss a beat. "If I bring you, who will protect Mother?"

"You know she's perfectly able to take care of herself. Besides, she has Gamlen, doesn't she?"

"You'd consider Gamlen as a suitable source of protection? Gamlen?" She shook her head. "Are we even thinking of the same person?"

Bethany crossed her arms. "You've made your point."

"Of course I have."

Hawke turned back to her drink, but her reticence seemed to push Bethany over some threshold, for her brows pulled low and her voice became rough as sand. "I know why you won't let me come," she whispered.

In half an instant, Hawke's grin was gone. "Bethany," she said in a voice as hard as stone.

"It's because of Carver."

Fenris caught Hawke's flinch only because he had been watching her closely. "You're wrong," she said in a quiet voice.

"I'm not wrong and you know it. You're afraid the same thing will happen to me, but it won't! I can take care of myself."

In the span of a heartbeat the rougish grin was back on her face, though it seemed to Fenris to be a poor imitation, easily seen through. "I think I've had enough revelry for one night, gentlemen," she said lightly, though in her eyes a storm brewed. "I will see you tomorrow afternoon." And with that, she swept from the room, disappearing into the din of the Hanged Man. Bethany stared at the place she'd gone for a long moment, her hands clenched into tight fists in her lap. Fenris was horrified to see that her lip trembled.

Varric noticed as well. "I don't think Hawke wants you to stay out of cruelty, Sunshine. She's just looking out for you."

"Of course she wasn't trying to be cruel. In fact, it'd be better if she was cruel," Bethany said, waving a hand.

"What do you mean?"

"She's too protective. She doesn't want what happened to Carver to happen to me. And before that, she protected me because of what I am. But because of that, I'm always under her thumb. I'm never able to branch out and experience like I want to. I'm trapped."

"So . . . your sister cares too much? Boy, I know the whole of Lowtown would kill for your problems," Varric said lightly, but Fenris wasn't so sure. He knew what it was to be controlled, contained. Perhaps it didn't matter if one kept you out of love or hate; you weren't free either way.

"I suppose," Bethany said. "I wish I could help her see that I need to . . . just be allowed to make my own choices every now and then."

"I could talk to her," Varric offered.

Bethany laughed; a short, derisive bark. "And I suppose you haven't noticed that my sister can be incredibly stubborn?"

"Fair point," Varric conceded. "But she loves you. She won't hold out if she sees you're miserable."

Bethany started to argue, but stopped. "Maybe you're right."

"Trust me. A lady like Hawke isn't going to keep hanging over you if she knows how much it bothers you. She cares about you too much," Varric explained, and Fenris knew it was true. No one could deny the fierce care Hawke had for her sister. In their travels, though she kept a light expression, her eyes watched her younger sibling obsessively, and there had been more than one occasion where Hawke had placed herself in danger to keep her sister safe.

Despite everything, Bethany gave them a small smile. "Thanks, Varric."

"Anytime, Sunshine." He might have let the subject drop with only encouragement, but Fenris could see the dwarf heard a story in Bethany's words, and he'd never been able to turn aside the chance for a story in his life. "Who was Carver?" he asked finally.

Bethany said nothing at first, watching the doorway where her sister had gone. "Hawke hasn't told you?"

"She tells a mean tale, but they're spare on the truth."

"That figures," she said, and then cast her gaze around the room, as if afraid Hawke was around the corner, listening. With a resigned sigh, she turned back to Varric and Fenris, her brows pulled together. "Carver was our brother," she said, almost too quietly to be heard in the din of the tavern.

" . . . You said 'was'?" Varric asked, though he seemed to already have pieced together this story.

Bethany bit her lip. "When we fled Lothering, he . . . he was killed. By an ogre. Marian killed the ogre and saved us, but Mama blamed her for Carver's death. That was a year ago, and . . . I don't think she's ever gotten over it." Bethany's lip trembled. "I don't think I have either. Carver was my twin."

Pity flooded his heart, for both Hawke and her sister, and yet in a detached, logical way, Fenris marveled that these two women could even be related to one another. While Bethany was open and forthright with her thoughts and feelings, Hawke hid behind light words and a laughing voice. How long had Fenris known her before learning of the fate of her brother? How well could he ever know her, the way she danced behind pleasant fiction, all in fear of her hard truths?

"I'm sorry," was all Varric was able to say. Fenris nodded ineptly, unable to speak.

"It's not your fault," Bethany said, and then stood. "I should be going, anyway. Maybe I can talk to Marian before she gets home."

"Good luck," Varric said, and Fenris echoed him. Dwarf and elf watched Bethany leave, her pace far too careworn and slow for a girl of eighteen.

With a sigh, Varric flopped back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Heavy stuff."

Fenris grunted in assent.

"I don't care who you are, peasant or king, family is always trouble."

"I wouldn't know," Fenris said before he could stop himself.

Varric fixed him with a speculative stare. "That's right; you don't remember your family. Relish it."

Fenris snorted and then drained his ale in one pull. Relish it? There was nothing to relish. He had always felt that not knowing was infinitely worse than knowing something upsetting. If he had a squabbling, tiresome family, at least he would know of them. At least he would remember.

With a quick breath, he stood and dropped a handful of coins on the table. "For the ale," he said.

"See you tomorrow, elf."

* * *

Fenris lay on the floor, his legs tangled in the moth eaten blankets he had procured from the linen closet many weeks ago. His mind wandered as he watched the shadows play on the walls, his thoughts spinning further and further away into the night. He had been like this for hours, it seemed, unable to drift off into uneasy sleep.

With a sigh, he disentangled himself from the blankets and rolled to his feet. He was restless again. Apprehension for the expedition mingled with his general feelings toward Hawke, and every time he grew close to sleep, her face would drift through his mind, and he would be awake again.

It was insufferable.

He grabbed a bottle of wine from the table and took a careful sip. The alcohol burned down his throat, soothing him. With a grunt, he flopped into the moth-eaten armchair and watched the flames dance on the walls. Morning was close enough, he figured.

As was becoming a frightening custom, he thought of Hawke, though this time his thoughts were punctuated by her sister and the events of tonight. He laid out what he had seen like pieces of a puzzle, poring over the way they fit together. It was easier to attribute his interest as curiosity instead of abject fascination.

He had been vaguely aware of her protective nature toward her sister, but he had not realized the extent of it. It was to the point where she kept her sister in a cage of protection; supposedly for Bethany's own good, but a cage nonetheless. It disturbed him more than he initially realized. He had taken great pains to distinguish the characters of his master and Hawke, and yet in this regard they were similar. Perhaps their motives were different; his master had contained him for his own gain and Hawke contained her sister for Bethany's safety, but wasn't it the principle of the matter?

No. He wasn't sure he believed that anymore. This was more than the big picture; here, the details made all the difference. Their individual reasons made all the difference. For when his master kept him prisoner for selfishness, ultimately, Hawke kept her sister prisoner for love. For love, and a surprising sense of duty that Fenris had not realized Hawke possessed.

Fenris thought of his own family, and a burst of understanding overtook him. If he had a sister of his own, he knew there would be no lengths he wouldn't go to keep his sister from harm. If he had a mother, he would guard her with his life. Suddenly, Hawke's obsessive vigilance seemed much less foreign to him, much more relatable. He felt a small grin turn his lips. It pleased him to realize that they were alike in yet another way.

He heard quiet footsteps behind him, but he didn't turn, though his heart had begun to pound. He knew those footsteps; he had come to recognize them quite intimately in the weeks since Hawke first came to his door. In fact, this had become something of a game for Hawke. She would sneak as quietly as she was able to, and Fenris would pretend to not hear her until she was nearly upon him. Though tonight he was so glad for her presence, he forgot the game entirely.

"I can hear you," he said.

He heard her irritated sigh. "Your ears are far too keen for this game."

"Only tonight, they are."

"Hmph!" she grumped, plopping into the bench beside him. "I take it you couldn't sleep either?"

He shook his head. "I've been restless the past few nights."

"Me, as well." She glanced to the fire, and Fenris watched the way the firelight reflected in her eyes, each flickering flame seeming to light her gaze from within. His tongue felt thick in his throat.

They sat in silence for a long moment; though Hawke was the very picture of easy-going comfort, her eyes were still tight, and Fenris knew her argument with her sister was still on her mind. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

She looked at him quickly and then glanced away. "Aside from my insomnia, couldn't be better."

"You know I know that's not true."

"If you knew I wasn't all right, why would you ask?"

"Everyone deserves an opportunity at the truth."

"Offering an opportunity does not create an obligation," she said icily.

"Pardon me for attempting to console," he retorted. "If you didn't come here to talk, why are you here?"

"For your charming company, of course."

He narrowed his eyes, but swallowed the bitter retort curdling on his tongue. He knew better than to bait her. She was as guarded as he was in these matters, and such graceless prodding would not work on him. Why did he think it would work on her? He sighed and looked up at her, took in her closed off features. Even angry, she took his breath away.

"I am sorry," he said quietly.

Hawke glared at him for one icy second, and then her features softened. "Me too," she sighed. "Curse it, Fenris. I came here to give you something, and I can't go two seconds without biting off your head." She hesitated, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. The firelight caught the curve of her neck, and he could not look away. "I'm as bad as Beth says."

"If I had a sister, I would do everything I could to keep her safe," he told her.

Her eyes snapped up to his, and the force of them almost took him off guard. "You mean it?"

"Yes."

Her smile became genuine then. "Thank you, Fenris."

"You're welcome."

"Damn it, now stop distracting me. I have something for you."

But Fenris, for the first time in his memory, felt sly pleasure at her words. "I distract you?"

"You know you do. I can't imagine any hot-blooded woman alive able to resist those puppy eyes."

It was Fenris' turn for incredulity. "What?"

"You know you have puppy eyes. You wield them like that giant sword you like so much."

"There are no puppy eyes," he said firmly.

"Struck a nerve, have we?"

"No."

Hawke burst into laughter. "Don't be such a spoilsport, Fenris. I was partly kidding, anyway. Now! I have something for you."

He could say nothing for a moment, instead goggling at her like a fool and a mute, as if he'd lost the power of speech and thought altogether. "You . . . got me a gift?" he managed.

"I did."

"What is it?"

Hawke leapt from her seat, her hands behind her back, her smile reflecting the impish delight in her eyes. "Could you guess?"

Fenris decided to play a long, for he could not deny being utterly charmed by her enthusiasm and generosity. "Cheese."

"No, not cheese." She paused, faltered, and his own heart ached at the sight of it. "Do you want me to get you some cheese instead?"

"No, I can get my own cheese." He tapped his chin in thought, watching her excited hopping. "Shoes?"

"Shoes? What a terrible gift. You don't even wear shoes," she said, eyeing his bare feet.

"I'm flattered that you noticed."

"Like it'd be hard not to! It was one of the first things I noticed about you."

He stared up at her. "Really?"

"Oh, don't be put out. It was just ... well, come on. Every blighter in this city wears shoes, from dirty Ferelden boots to fancy Orlesian slings, and here you are, strolling around with feet bare as day. Doesn't it hurt if you step on something?"

"I don't notice."

"Of course you don't. Keep guessing."

"Fine. Let's see . . . " Fenris watched her smile, and her delight warmed him more than any fire could. A wave of tenderness took him; it didn't matter what the gift was. The fact that she had given him anything was a gift enough to him. "I give up."

With a flourish, she whipped rectangular parcel from behind her back and placed it in Fenris' hands. "Ta-da! Open it!"

Feeling foolish and wasteful, he carefully removed the oilskin covering the gift as quickly as he was able to, attempting to mask the shaking of his hands. He had never received a gift before, and now that he held one in his hands, now that it had been given by the most fascinating, beautiful person he had ever known, he found it difficult to speak. With a sinking feeling, he realized the object in his hand was a book.

"It's _A Slave's Life, _by Shartan. The last few times we've been at market I saw you looking at it, so I thought I'd get it for you," she explained, her eyes alight with excitement.

He had no idea this book had been about Shartan; when he had seen it in the market, he had marveled at the especially beautiful way the symbols on the page had been rendered. He felt the grin slide off his face. "Ah . . . thank you," he said, trying to force sincerity out of his shame. She had no way of knowing that he wasn't able to read, and more than anything, that she thought of him was a gift.

"You don't like it," she said, her face falling.

"No! I do! It's not that," he said quickly, holding the book close. "It's just . . . " He briefly considered keeping his shameful secret, but one look at her crestfallen expression and the words almost flew from his lips. "I can't read," he admitted.

"You can't?"

"No. Slaves are not permitted to read."

She looked away for half a second, and then her gaze met his again, suddenly fierce and excited. "But you're not a slave, not anymore. I could teach you."

Fenris could not speak, could not do anything but stare at this beautiful woman and marvel at the turn of events that had placed her so firmly in his life. He hardly knew what to do with himself, with his clumsy stupid hands, with his tongue. She had noticed him enjoying something beautiful, and without being asked or in any other way prompted, she'd given it to him. She offered to teach him without any thought to herself. He realized that this woman was nothing like Danarius, and he loved her for it.

"You wouldn't mind?" he said finally.

"Mind? I'd love to. I mean, you want to learn, right?"

"I've always wanted to learn to read," he said, and his voice sounded distant to his ears. He felt . . . odd as he watched her, her smile, her bright eyes. If he was being honest with himself, her kindness touched him, left him feeling strangely vulnerable. And though that kind of vulnerability was just as much of a weakness as he'd always known, tonight it was understandable. Tonight, he would tolerate it.

"Wonderful," she said, plopping down on the stone floor and patting the space next to her. "Let's get started."

As he carefully sat beside her, opening the cover of his book almost reverently, he found the only words he could say were of thanks. And yet as she looked at him, that shining smile lighting the room, he felt as if she understood what it meant. He felt as if at that moment, they understood one another perfectly.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Huge bundles of thanks to Leo's Lair, Anon, Serenity's Melody, Tori, randomchick300, Blackheart214, socialkombat, Ritd, and Everything In Its Right Place for your awesome reviews and to everyone else who has faved and followed this story! You guys are really fantastic!**

**Ah, this chapter was hard. Perhaps this is unprofessional, but I had no idea how I was going to end it, so I hope what I finally settled on works! Coming next time- ACT II!**

**As always, please please leave me a review if you liked what you read or have some suggestions; I love hearing what you all think! Thanks for reading everyone!**

For the first time in his limited memory, Fenris did not want the night to end. Instead of the usual restless pacing through Danarius' mansion waiting for the sun to rise, Fenris found himself cursing the pale light that dusted the windows, spilling onto the floor below. Too soon, it was all too soon! How was it that when you most needed it to, time refused to slow its relentless march forward?

His room was even more of a mess than usual, but he found himself beyond caring. As he had carefully set his book aside, she swept the ashen contents of the fireplace out onto the floor with her boot and knelt before the mess, not seeming to care about dirtying her clothes. Her laughter at his incredulous expression still rang in his ears.

And then, she had begun to teach. Hands that were sure and violent in battle were graceful now, forming shapes and markings in the ash of such beauty that Fenris found himself unable to look away. Her wrist bent gently, this way and that, and her fingers traced through the ash with surety.

"This is 'A'," she had said, pointing to the shape she had made. "Now you try."

Self-conscious, Fenris mimicked the shape as best as he was able, though the letter he produced was considerably more unkempt.

"Careful to keep the lines straight as you can, but don't force. It's a quick motion, like this," she said, demonstrating again. And his second attempt was more like Hawke's.

"Very good," she beamed, and he felt himself smiling in return. Her praise was so inexplicably lovely to him.

It felt as if barely minutes had passed before she stood, murmuring almost shyly about catching some sleep before the expedition left. He knew he hadn't imagined the slight coloring of her cheeks as she bid him good night, subtle though it was.

"I'll teach you the rest of the letters soon," she promised before disappearing into the pale morning.

And though he knew he should sleep himself, he found he could not. He brushed away his jerky, amateur markings from the ash on the floor, careful to leave Hawke's preserved. Though he told himself it was to keep a model of what his letters should look like, he knew that wasn't the entire truth. Her beautiful letters in the ash were still beyond his complete understanding, but for now, they spoke to him of care, of affection. And he found he couldn't bear to wipe that away.

The rest of his morning was spent fastidiously practicing the three letters Hawke had taught him; A, B, C. He attempted to mimic the grace in which she rendered the letters, the careless mastery. He arranged the letters in different orders, sounding out their sums. And when he wasn't making his letters in the ash, he flipped through the book Hawke had given him, looking for the letters he knew and feeling a kind of juvenile triumph when he found one.

So it was with excitement and sadness alike when he left for the Dwarven District that afternoon. He was anxious to see Hawke again, though it had only been a few hours, but he did not want to leave his letters behind. There was so much to learn, still! The rest of the alphabet, and the sounds they all made. The combinations. There were so many words to learn, Fenris suddenly realized. How was anyone able to understand them all?

He and Hawke shared something now, something that she didn't share with any of her other companions, and this thought gave Fenris a kind of wild hope, dangerous and intoxicating. She didn't spend time with Varric, into the bare hours of the dawn. She didn't give gifts to Aveline, the somber guardswoman, and they had known one another for over a year now. And though he knew he shouldn't, he felt a great deal of pleasure at these facts.

He thought of her as he moved through the churning crowd of Kirkwall, making his way to the Dwarven District. He thought of her bright eyes, usually alight in mischief or joy. He thought of her generosity; had he ever known a person so conscious of the needs and wants of others? He thought of her kindness and easy joy; it was harder and harder every day to maintain the force of his previous stoicism in the face of her japery, her laughter. He thought of her closet of smiles.

When he had first met Hawke, he made the foolish mistake of assuming she had only one smile, and it was a smile she wore most of the time. But it wasn't true; she had an entire closet full, and the more he grew to know her, the more he recognized the subtle shifts in each one. The abandon of her truly happy grin, the somewhat speculative cast to her impish one. The way her eyes strained when she smiled through sadness.

It was a different smile she wore when she saw him approach, one that was almost shy. But she waved as he pushed his way through the irate crowd of the Dwarven District. He didn't hear their shouts, the quick bandy of prices back and forth; he didn't see the flash of coin moving from one pair of hands to the other. He only saw her.

"Fenris! You're just on time," Hawke said brightly.

"Aren't I usually?"

"Fair point." She cocked her head. "You're all sooty, you know."

Was he? Shit. He wiped his filthy knees and scrubbed at his face and ashy hair, feeling foolish. "I hadn't noticed."

Her smile became speculative. "Did you work on your letters instead of sleeping?"

"I might have."

"It's all right. I couldn't sleep much either." She glanced back at the pair of dwarves arguing behind her. "We might be here awhile."

Fenris followed her gaze; Varric wore an uncharacteristically irate expression as he argued with a dwarf that looked rather a lot like him, though with paler skin and lighter eyes. Varric's brother, he realized quickly. "What's the problem?"

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Bartrand doesn't want to share."

"Not much like his brother, then."

"You've got that right. Varric doesn't let his ego get in the way of a good deal." Her sigh was fond. "I ought to help him out, don't you think?"

"Only if you think you can improve the conversation."

"Don't I always?" she fired back with a cheeky grin.

He waved her off, suppressing a smile.

As he watched, she did indeed improve the conversation; with an easy flourish, she swept in and clapped Varric on the back. He couldn't hear the words she spoke, but Bartrand's expression changed as she pulled out a small money pouch heavy with gold and waved it in the dwarfs face. The ultimatum she delivered was expertly done; firm, but inviting. Fenris watched Bartrand accept her before he even spoke another word.

The conversation ended quickly after that. Bartrand shook hands with Hawke and then shooed her away, barking orders to his hired hands for them to assemble and triple check their belongings.

"I tell you, Varric; what would you do without me?" she asked, grinning.

"Be a lot poorer, for one thing," the dwarf replied easily. "I'm tempted to keep you on hand every time I have to talk to that stone-head."

"There's not enough gold in the world to keep your brother happy all the time."

"Ha! You're probably right," said Varric. "Is everyone here?"

Hawke nodded toward Anders. "Hark, here be the bearer of the esteemed and distinguished Grey Warden Maps."

"I could change my mind, you know," the mage said, his eyes narrowed.

"Relax, Anders. It was a joke."

"Hmph."

She grinned. "That's everyone, I think."

Varric's brows pulled low, and his eyes were suddenly filled with apprehension. "I think your family is here to see you off, Hawke."

For her part, Hawke's grin did not falter, though her eyes grew tight. "Better see them off, then," she said in a cheery voice, though as she made her way toward them, she seemed like one marching to the gallows.

"Bye, Mama," Hawke said, pulling her distraught mother into her arms. "We'll be back soon."

"Are you sure you must do this, Marian? The Deep Roads . . . they're dangerous."

"It won't be so bad. Varric is a wizard with his crossbow, and I haven't seen an injury that Anders couldn't heal," Hawke said, attempting a winning smile.

Fenris watched Bethany's expression become hard, determined. "I'm coming with you."

He couldn't hear what Hawke said over her mother's noisy protest. "Bethany, we've spoken of this. The Deep Roads are too dangerous."

"That's why I want to go! I know I'll be able to help them," Bethany said. "Please let me go, Mother."

"Bethany, please," Leandra whispered. "I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

Bethany turned to Hawke, the plea plain in her expression, and Hawke seemed to consider, to Fenris' surprise. The almost permanent smile was absent from her face, her lips pulled down in a frown. There was silence between the three women for what seemed much longer than it really was.

"Mama," Hawke said finally. "It's up to Bethany. She's old enough and skilled enough to make her own choices now."

Leandra's eyes were sharp with betrayal, as if Hawke had plunged dagger into her back and let it rot there. For her part, Bethany could hardly contain her excitement. Fenris couldn't hear what she said, but her lips seemed to move to the words 'thank you'.

Leandra didn't say a word; she folded Bethany in her arms and held her tight before breaking away. With a long look toward Hawke, she turned and disappeared into the crowd. Hawke watched her go, staring into the churning crowd well after her mother was long gone.

Fenris found himself watching Hawke, the stiff angle of her shoulders. It was a hard decision for her, he knew. She was just as protective of her younger sister as her mother was, and he could tell it took a toll on her to allow her to venture into the Deep Roads. Knowing the fate of her brother, Carver, he could understand why. And as he watched her, the stressed creased of her eyebrows, he vowed to keep an eye on her sister, for her sake.

Finally, she turned back to the group, a tight smile on her face. "Well, that's everyone. The Deep Roads await."

* * *

The journey to the Deep Roads was easy enough; the weather was fair and the road well kept, so the caravan made decent time. The sky was a perfect cobalt, cotton spun clouds moving slowly over their heads, and aside from a few isolated bandit raids, the trip was uneventful, even enjoyable.

However the Deep Roads were another matter entirely. Constantly dark and dank, the unnatural silence unnerved Fenris, and as they moved through the crumbling passages he felt himself shifting almost constantly into a position of readiness, his hands never far from his blade. He knew the stillness here was deceptive, and dangerous things lurked just out of sight.

In front of them, Bartrand waxed nostalgic about the ancient holdings of the dwarves, but Fenris could tell Varric had a very different opinion of the Deep Roads. His expression was almost constantly pulled into thick dislike and annoyance, as if smelled something foul, and he even snapped at his brother as they journeyed further into the heart of the Deep Roads. For his part, Bartrand did not seem to notice his brother's irritation, his oddly light eyes shining in the darkness.

Though Hawke made every appearance of her usual levity, she stuck on her sister like frost on a blade. Hawke was kind enough to pretend that she only sought her sister's company and humor, but Fenris saw her hands hover by her weapons and her eyes dart about, looking for any source of danger lurking in the deep.

So it was for days. Bartrand gave the expedition six hours to rest for every eighteen, but even with the mad dwarf's stringent schedule, Fenris barely saw Hawke sleep at all. She paced around the perimeter of the camp, the fire light catching in her eyes and reflecting on her blades, never far from reach. Sometimes, she would disappear and the sounds of a creature meeting a particularly gruesome end would echo through the caverns.

Though her latest defensive excursion seemed to take away the last dregs of energy she possessed. With an inaudible sigh, she slumped down into the dirt against a cart, her eyes closing. Her chest rose and fell from the exertion, and she lifted a hand to it, as if to quiet its frantic beating. Fenris was at her side almost immediately.

"You should rest."

She chuckled. "I rested at the last stop."

"My memory isn't so poor that I'd believe you. Let me take the watch," he offered. He had the sudden urge to push the dirty strands of her hair out of her eyes, but it withered into fear the longer it went unmet. Just as always, poisoned by memory.

She hadn't noticed his internal struggle. "Thank you, Fenris," she murmured, her eyelids fluttering closed. She was asleep within seconds.

He waved Bethany over to where Hawke lay, and she shot him a thankful glance as arranged Hawke in a more comfortable position, stuffing her pack under her sister's head.

He left for the perimeter, alone with his thoughts. He had thought the perpetual darkness of the Deep Roads would disturb him, but he already slept so little he found it made no difference.

Fenris stewed as he peered into the distance, only half aware of what lay in the dark. It was becoming something of a problem, his desires. He had thought, however foolishly, that the longer he knew Hawke, the less she would affect him. He had believed that learning her quirks and secrets would lessen the desperate need that grew in him. He had hoped that perhaps the only reason he felt so drawn to this woman was only simple curiosity. She was interesting, far more interesting than any other person he'd ever known, and curiosity would be only natural. It was upsetting to slowly realize this belief was wrong.

He snorted at his foolishness. She was an interesting woman, sure. There was no denying that. But the desire to touch her should not have been involved. He knew the perils of an errant touch far too well; his life as a slave to an exceptionally cruel man had taught him all he needed to know about its folly. He had learned that it was something to be avoided. His body must always be a shield, a shell to protect what lay within, and allowing any kind of touch, tender or otherwise, to happen would be to let that shield be destroyed.

To know her, yes. That was fine; that was a joy! She was a fascinating woman, and a pleasure to know. To look at her and want, that was . . . acceptable. Better done without, but it couldn't be helped at this point. But touch? That was too much.

It seemed only as if minutes had passed before Fenris heard Bartrand yelling for the expedition to pack up and move. Fenris cursed; that stupid dwarf was going to alert every foul creature in the Deep Roads to their presence. Though, when he saw Hawke stand and shoot him a tender smile, he found he forgot his grievances.

"Thanks again, Fenris," she said, sidling up to him.

He shrugged. "You needed sleep. You're not a golem."

"Not the last time I checked, anyway," she said, pinching the flesh on her wrist.

He couldn't help it, he smiled at the image. Hawke as a golem would surely be even more formidable in battle.

Hawke cocked her head, watching him. "You have a nice smile, you know?"

"W-what?"

"You do! You should smile more often," she said, laughing at his dumbstruck expression. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"

Fenris shook his head.

"Well, pity for everyone else. It's true."

"What are you trying to say?"

Her expression was innocent. "Nothing, just making an observation." She wandered away, but not before shooting him another charming smile.

He cursed. Damn her! How was she able to disarm him so completely with a simple compliment? He couldn't allow himself to fall totally to pieces every time she smiled her ridiculous and charming chip-toothed smile at him. Though, as he thought about it, it made sense; he didn't smile unless he was in her presence.

A scout's horn pulled him back into the present with alarming force. "DARKSPAWN!" the scout screamed, and his warning was cut off a second later, dissolving into a wretched gurgle. Before he was consciously aware of it, he had drawn his sword and fallen into the lyrium haze, the blue flames singing his skin.

It was a slaughter. They darkspawn poured from both directions of the narrow passage they journeyed through while above them two lines of archers pelted the expedition with barbed arrows. He heard Hawke screaming for everyone to take cover, but it was almost too late; the archers had succeeded in killing almost half of the laborers.

He wasted no time. With a snarl of anger, he sprinted to the back of the caravan, cutting a vicious swath of carnage through the darkspawn before they were even aware of what was attacking them. This was a dance Fenris had perfected long ago, and these witless creatures were no match for his skill. Two tried to sneak up on him, but he heard their approach; he swung his sword at them both, throwing his entire body weight into the blow.

He could hear Bethany and Anders casting spells, picking off the archers before they could retreat. Leaping over the wasted corpses strewn about the ground, he found her; Hawke. She was terrifying; spinning and pirouetting out of the path of the blows aimed at her, the flash of her daggers only barely visible in the low light. Her expression was mocking, jubilant. She was more skilled than the darkspawn and she knew it. But Fenris would not take any chances with her safety; in the span of a few seconds, he had blinked forward, plunging his fists into the chests of any darkspawn too close.

He heard Hawke's jibing laughter cut off in a shout of pain. He spun just in time to see her fall, an arrow sticking out of her shoulder. He wasn't aware of screaming in anger, but it was over in the next second. Bethany hurled a fireball at the archer who had injured her sister, and the darkspawn made no sound as it drowned in flame.

The silence then was overpowering. Gritting her teeth, Hawke ripped the arrow out of her shoulder and snapped it in her hands, throwing the broken pieces to the ground. "Is everyone all right?" she called. "Bethany?"

Her sister nodded, though her face was startlingly pale. When Hawke grinned and turned to assess the rest of the damages, her sister clutched at her arm, blood pooling around her fingers. Varric noticed as well, and he was not so easily fooled. "Sunshine, you're wounded," he said.

"I was just nicked by a darkspawn, see? It's not even deep," said Bethany, wrapping her arm quickly in a spare scrap of linen. "Don't worry about it."

"If you're sure . . . " Varric said slowly. "Now, where is that useless older brother of mine?"

Fenris caught up with Hawke, who was giving orders to the remaining caravan drivers in soothing and yet firm tones. "Hawke," he said, unable to keep the reproach from his voice. "You going to take care of that wound?" he asked pointedly, nodded toward the steadily leaking hole in her shoulder.

"I was getting around to it," she said as she lifted a small red bottle from her pack, dabbing it carefully at her wound. The potion hissed as it knitted together her torn flesh, and she clenched her eyes shut against the pain. "Good as new," she said, stowing the bottle.

"I was more referring to seeking the help of one of the mages," he said, not amused.

"Ah, it's just a scratch. They shouldn't waste their energy. Come on," she said before he could protest. "Bartrand tells me we're almost there."

The journey continued, though the darkspawn raid put the remaining laborers on edge. They were unable to bury the dead, so they had left them where they fell, fodder for the many hungry things of the Deep Roads. It unsettled Fenris for reasons he couldn't exactly articulate.

He watched Hawke carefully, anxious for any sign of illness. He knew little of the darkspawn, but they were famous for poisoning their blades and arrows, and he watched Hawke with scrutiny, searching for any signs of infection or illness. But she seemed to carry on as normal, the only indication that he had been hurt was the hole in her shoddy leather armor.

Only a few hours had passed when Bartrand called out again, though his voice was reverent instead of impatient now. "This is it," he said, his breathy voice carrying through the caverns. "We found it!"

They had found something, that was for sure. This thaig was different than the ones the expedition had travelled through. The stone glowed with an ominous light, pulsing weakly, and Fenris felt the beginnings of a headache lace through his skull. Was this . . . lyrium?

Varric wasn't as impressed. "I'm not seeing anything we can take out of here yet, Bartrand."

But his brother did not seem to hear him. "Let's go! Diggers, stay behind. We're going to scout ahead."

They didn't have to go far. The further they delved into the lyrium thaig, the stranger Bartrand became. His wide eyes glazed, reflecting the sick glow of lyrium in the walls, and Fenris felt the back of his neck prick. Something was very wrong here. Something was going to happen.

He caught up with Hawke, leaning close to whisper. "I have a bad feeling about this place," he said quietly.

For once, Hawke was not smiling. "I do as well. This place . . . I don't like it. Something is odd." She beckoned to Varric. "I'm not sure we're going to find anything here, partner," she said easily, but Fenris saw the worry in her eyes.

Varric frowned. "You're not going to hear me argue. This is not what I had in mind. I was thinking along the lines of treasure! Loot! Things that we can actually sell!"

"You don't think you could sell the location?" Hawke asked shrewdly.

"Sure I could. I'd prefer something tangible, though."

But despite their misgivings they continued on, trailing Bartrand through the twisting passages of the ancient thaig. There were no darkspawn here, and they were instead attacked by odd elemental creatures made of stone, held together by bands of electricity and lyrium. Fenris had never seen anything like them, and his unease deepened.

"Stop!" Bartrand finally called out, many hours later. Before them stood what looked like a tomb, conspicuously different than the rest of the thaig, and the entire wall seemed to pulse with an odd energy. "Hawke, you go first," Bartrand ordered.

Hawke didn't argue and instead drew her blades, stepping carefully over the threshold. Fenris' instinct had been correct; it was indeed a tomb. A sarcophagus lay on a platform above, the stairs leading up to it as brightly red as the walls. And on the sarcophagus was a strange, little object; Fenris felt it pulse weirdly in his skull.

"What do you suppose this is?" Hawke said, holding the object up to Varric.

"It's lyrium," he said, sounding thrilled. "Now here is something we can sell." He waved down to Bartrand. "Look! An idol! How much do you think this'll go for?" he called in triumph, tossing the object to his brother.

Bartrand caught the idol easily, examining it. "What a find," he breathed, and Fenris started at his odd tone. The dwarf's eyes were glazed and wide, his expression oddly triumphant and adoring. He ran a tentative finger along the idols edge, beaming in pleasure.

Now that he thought of it, the elder dwarf had been acting oddly all through their entire journey through the ancient thaig. It was strange that Bartrand had seemed to know exactly where to go to find this little idol; the thaig was labyrinthine and convoluted, and Fenris knew that had Bartrand not been with them, they would have wandered for much longer before finding the artifact.

"We need to leave," he said suddenly, unable to keep the urgency from his tone.

Hawke didn't question him. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Come on, everyone," she said, beckoning to the door.

They were too late; at that second, the giant door slammed shut, locking into its groove with a thud that shook the entire thaig. A quick scan of the tomb proved his instincts correct; Bartrand was gone.

Varric pounded on the door. "Bartrand! The door shut behind you!" he called, not understanding.

"Did it? Good!" came Bartrand's voice from beyond the stone door, muffled.

Varric shook his head, his eyes wide and disbelieving. "Are you kidding? I'm your brother!"

"You sure are! You're also a fool!"

Varric pounded on the door again. "You son of a bitch! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me. I've just decided I'm going to sell this idol and the location of this thaig, and I'd rather not split the profits three ways. So long, Varric!"

Varric continued to pound on the door to no avail, screaming. "BARTRAND!" His voice echoed plaintively through the hard walls of the tomb.

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "You have got to be kidding me."

With one last futile slam of his fist, Varric turned away from the door, his expression furious and disgusted. "You said it. I should have turned back when you said we should."

"There's nothing we can do about it now," Hawke said. "How about we try and find a way out of here instead?"

Varric scrubbed at his face, shaking the betrayal away like a dog shakes water from its fur. "Yeah. Yeah, let's get out of here."

* * *

They wandered for days. Fenris had hardly made a note of the presence of the caravan before; it was more a hindrance than a help in his mind, with its constant need to be guarded and it's unwieldy wagons that blocked all but the easiest passages. But now, when they were without it, he knew he had been foolish. They were without the strength in numbers that a caravan provided, and more importantly, they were now without food and supplies.

Varric had little to say during their wanderings. His brother's betrayal seemed to hit him harder than he would ever admit to anyone, and Fenris respected this. He knew what it was to hate, to rage. He cut a wide berth around the dwarf, all too eager to give him the distance he needed while he stewed in fury.

It was now that Anders finally shone. Foolishly, Bartrand had forgotten that the mage was in possession of the maps that led them to this particular thaig, and Hawke took advantage of this. She plied Anders expertly, and the mage seemed all too happy to be of use for once. He called out directions like a general guiding his troops through enemy lands, and Fenris found he was too grateful for the maps to turn his nose up at the aid.

He hated the Deep Roads. The silence was deafening, and here he was never able to relax his guard. Though he rarely did on the surface, here it was a struggle to allow himself even to sleep. Unseen eyes peered at him through the shadows, and a sickening headache laced through his skull for days.

Though he knew it was foolish, he shadowed Hawke almost obsessively. They were almost constantly beset by the rock abominations that plagued this ancient thaig, and he was determined not to allow her to be injured again. In a very isolated part of his mind he knew he was being foolish; Hawke was skilled, and what's more, she was on the alert now. There was little that would take her off guard after what Bartrand had done. But he found he could not convince himself to desist his protective shadowing.

The journey had not been all for nothing, however. A few days from the tomb, they had found a cache full to the bursting with treasure and gold. It had been guarded by a pack of especially tough rock abominations, and they had barely defeated them. But Varric became considerably more cheerful after that- he seized Anders' maps and marked an emphatic X on the cache so he'd know where to return. And, he assured everyone, he would return.

They were close now. After weeks in the depths, Fenris was able to detect subtle differences in the air, and instead of the still, stagnant air that he had grown used to, the air seemed to become lighter. He could smell earth now, and rain! They were close, he knew it. They were close to the blessed surface once more. Fenris wasn't prone to acts of extravagance, but a sudden image of him kissing the dirt of the surface suddenly came to him. Foolishness.

"We're close to the surface, now," he said, inhaling. "Can't you smell it?"

Varric nodded. "I can't see how my wretched kin have such a love affair for this horrible place. What would anyone willingly live down here?"

Hawke grinned, wiping a smudge of dirt off her nose. "Varric! This is such a surprise! Personally, I find the Deep Roads to be quite homey."

"I suspected you were crazy, Hawke, but I'd always thought it was the good kind of crazy."

"You'd be crazy not to want to live in this subterranean palace of wonders. Loot, crazy monsters out for our blood, the abominations; what's not to love?"

"Laugh it up, why don't you?" Varric retorted, but Fenris heard the good humor in his voice. They were close to the surface now, and feeling considerably more cheerful than they had in days.

"Marian?"

Everyone turned, but no one faster than Hawke, for she had heard the weakness in her younger sister's voice. "Beth? What is it?" She was at Bethany's side almost instantly.

"Could we rest? I'm so tired," she said, wobbling in place.

It was then that Fenris noticed Bethany. She had been so quiet through their journey through the ancient thaig that he had almost forgotten she was there, to his intense shame. She was pale and sweating, and dark splotches marred her once beautiful skin. It was the darkspawn corruption, he realized quickly. Bethany's wound had been much more serious than she had let on.

Hawke caught her sister before she swooned, and her eyes were drawn to the inconspicuous bandage on her arm, soaked dark with dried blood. With an almost inaudible gasp, she ripped the bandage away, revealing skin black with infection and corruption. The stench of the wound was unbearable.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Hawke cried.

Bethany shrugged weakly. "I . . . didn't want you to worry. I thought it would get better. I tried to heal it and everything." Her voice trembled with shamed tears.

"Oh, Beth." Thought she tried to grin for her sister's sake, her voice broke. She knew what this meant. Corruption of this scale could not be reversed.

Varric knelt at Bethany's side, his face horrified. "Sunshine . . ."

Hawke shook her head then, defiantly. "What can we do, Anders? You're the expert."

"There's nothing we can do. I'm sorry," he said.

"Think of something!" Hawke hissed.

Anders opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to think of something in that instant. "There . . . there is something. But it isn't . . . I wouldn't offer this option if there were another choice."

"And there isn't. What is it?" Hawke said, her voice dangerous with urgency.

"The corruption cannot be reversed, but if Bethany were to become a Grey Warden, the ritual would perhaps allow her to overcome the taint."

"Is that something we can do here?"

Anders shook his head. "No- we would have to find a Warden, an actual member of the order. And we would need darkspawn blood, and . . . well, I've never done the ritual, so I wouldn't know exactly what we need."

"The Wardens frequent this place, don't they? Do you know where some would be?" Hawke asked desperately.

"There is a long chance . . . but we have to hurry. She won't last much longer."

Hawke didn't need to be told twice. With a grunt, she tried to lift her sister into her arms, only to cry out as the weight strained at her injured shoulder. But Anders wouldn't have it; he knelt at Bethany's side and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, sprinting off into the dark.

They moved through the darkness with panicked urgency now. All thoughts of the surface lay forgotten; they all moved with frenzied efficiency to save Bethany. No one asked to stop and rest, not even to sleep or recover after battle, and Fenris wasn't sure Hawke would have allowed them to anyway.

Bethany shivered in Anders' arms, and he tenderly wiped her sweaty hair out of her face. He spoke to her constantly, telling her wild and convoluted stories of his time in the Grey Wardens. He had traveled with the famed Warden Commander herself, the Hero of the Fifth Blight, and to hear him tell it, they had been close friends. He spoke of a haunted marsh and talking darkspawn, and so wild were his stories that Fenris almost wondered if he were the one raving with fever and not Bethany.

But his tales served their purpose; she clung to consciousness and to life, listening to him speak. Her eyes were bright, with affection or fever Fenris didn't know. She asked him about life as a Warden in a weak voice; what did it mean? How would she change? Would she live? No one knew how to answer her last question.

Fenris cursed himself a thousand times. Foolish! He had promised to watch them both, and yet because of his carelessness, he had not seen Bethany's illness and injury until far too late. If she died, what would that do to Hawke? Her mother? How would he ever be able to look either of them in the eyes again, knowing it was his negligence that led to this?

After what seemed to be a frantic eternity, they heard voices in the distance. Without pausing a beat, Hawke and Anders broke into a flat out run, their feet slapping against the hard stone of the roads. Fenris and Varric struggled to keep up; he had lost track of the hours spent awake, running through the endless tunnels of this forsaken place.

"Wardens!" Anders shouted, his voice booming through the crumbling halls. The voices stopped, and the sounds of weapons leaving their hilts were the only response. But Anders did not pause; he charged ahead without a thought, and Fenris found himself feeling a slight degree of respect for the mage's selflessness and bravery. If nothing else, he respected his stamina.

"Who goes there?" came the grudging response.

"Anders, of the Amaranthine Wardens. Second Lieutenant to Warden Commander Elissa," Anders said without hesitation.

The Wardens were upon them now; Fenris saw they were led by a taciturn man with a full mustache and austere bearing. The man narrowed his eyes as he recognized Anders. "I wasn't aware you still considered yourself a Warden, Anders."

"That's of little consequence now," Anders said coldly. "We need your help."

Hawke pushed forward. "We need you to make my sister a Grey Warden." She gestured to Bethany, who had gone quite limp.

"That isn't quite how we do things, messere."

"Are you telling me the Wardens are full up? You're in no need of recruits at all?" said Anders.

The Commander shifted in place, eyeing them warily. "We're always in need of skilled recruits," he said evasively, placing a subtle emphasis on the word 'skilled'.

"Bethany is a very skilled mage with no ties to the Circle," Anders argued. "Only her family will miss her, and none will begrudge you if you take her."

"And you're all aware she might not survive the Joining?"

"She's been told," Anders said curtly, though his expression became desperate, pleading. "Please, Commander. Please accept her." He shifted the limp girl toward the Warden, as if she were an offering.

Fenris startled at the mage's suddenly desperate tone. Why was Anders so concerned for Bethany's fate? Perhaps it was because Hawke seemed to be rendered mute, but Fenris realized perhaps Bethany's affections for the apostate were not as unrequited as she had believed.

The Commander was silent for a long moment, but then he nodded quickly. "We will take the girl now, and prepare a Joining for her. Say your goodbyes now, for you cannot follow us where we go."

Anders nodded. "Thank you, ser." He set Bethany carefully on her feet, holding her shoulders to keep her steady. "Remember what I told you," he said softly, and brushed her dirty hair out of her face.

"I will," Bethany said, her voice nothing more than a whisper.

Anders said nothing else, but he took Bethany's face in his hands and kissed her forehead lightly before turning to Hawke. Hawke didn't seem to see him; she smiled, but it was a smile filled with unimaginable grief, a smile scraped raw. She wrapped her arms around her sister, holding her tight. "Bye, Bethy."

"Bye, Mari." Both of their voices shook. "I love you,"

Hawke laughed, though it was a broken thing. "Ah, come on. It's not goodbye," she said, giving her sister a swift kiss, though it did not mask the shaking of her hands. "We'll see each other again real soon."

"Yeah," Bethany breathed. She stumbled, but the Warden Commander caught her, sweeping her easily into his arms. She curled there, her eyes fluttering closed. "Real soon," she echoed as the Wardens turned to leave.

They stood there for a long time, watching the Wardens slowly depart. They stayed until they could no longer see them in the distance, until the only thing that could be heard were the sounds of their breathing. They stood there until Hawke turned to them with a tremulous grin on her face, urging them toward the surface. And as she waved them along, Fenris saw a small rivulet of blood chase its way down her arm; on her palm, four crescent gouges stood stark against the pallor of her skin.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Many thanks to CreatedInFyre7, Torilund Archer, Procrastination Possum, Serenity's Melody, Leo's Lair, Blackheart214, and Cobalt Stars for your amazing reviews and to everyone else who has been faving and following this story! Your support is why I write this story!**

**I had intended to jump right in to ACT II, but it seemed kind of weird to me to do so without a transition and without wrapping up some themes and such that I've been building on the last few chapters, so this chapter here serves as a kind of Interlude.**

**Your thoughts, suggestions and comments are awesome; let me know how I'm doing and what you'd like to see for Act II! Thanks for reading everyone!**

INTERLUDE I- AN UNDERSTANDING

For the last two weeks, it rained almost constantly. Rivers of water rushed through the streets and down the sides of the buildings, pouring into the bay below. The air was thick enough to cut, and everywhere one was met with the smell of dirt and rolling sea, the inexorable scent of a coastal town in autumn. The rainy season was no more than a vague nuisance to the denizens of Kirkwall though, for all knew what to do during the autumn rains. Stalls were weighted down with rocks and protected with leather tarps slathered with animal fat. Business continued as usual.

Fenris pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes, straining to see through the thick rain. If Kirkwall hadn't operated on a strict routine, he wouldn't have known that it was now dusk. Shop keepers now pulled the tarps completely over their stalls and hastily packed their goods away before hurrying away into the impenetrable rain. The streets were almost clear in a matter of minutes.

It had been a sour day. Fenris had taken a job as a bodyguard for some self-absorbed noble as they navigated Lowtown in a somewhat sensitive deal. He supposed the details might have been of use to Varric, but he found he couldn't muster the energy to pay attention to anything beyond his duty.

Without bothering to shield his eyes from the torrential downpour, he sped through the streets of Hightown. Though he could hardly see five feet in front of him, he knew exactly where to turn, where to duck, which shortcuts to take and which to eschew. Irrationally, he wondered why his path to the Amell mansion hadn't worn grooves in the streets by now.

Every day after work, either doing some odd job for the nobles of this town or puttering around Danarius' abandoned mansion, he came to see Leandra. He attempted to convince himself that pity moved him to action; she was old and alone now, with Bethany a Warden and Hawke missing. And it was partly the truth, for the thought of her wandering from room to room of her mansion twisted something deep in his heart.

But with his pity was mingled guilt. Regardless of any attempt to rationalize the events that had transpired in the Deep Roads, Fenris could not shake the suspicion that it had been his fault. Had he been quicker and more vigilant, perhaps Bethany would not have been injured. If Bethany had not been injured, perhaps Hawke would have not disappeared.

It was painful to think about. Every night Fenris sat with Leandra. Bred of her years as a noble, she would attempt to make conversation and she always made sure he was well fed on his visits. But it was always there between them; that sadness, a hole shaped like the woman that had left them.

Fenris grimaced in disgust. Foolish thoughts. There was no hole, no absence. He visited Hawke's mother out of a sense of duty and obligation, nothing more. And, well, she was decent company. A good cook. He owed her. And there were times, though brief, when he would look at Leandra out of the corner of his eye and the resemblance between mother and daughter would be so striking that it was almost as if she was there.

Wiping his streaming nose with the back of his hand, he pounded on the polished door of the Amell mansion, which loomed above him like a lonely sentinel, windows dark. Though he had been visiting Leandra for months now, he always knocked. He always gave her the option to turn him away. He was still waiting for her to realize the absence of her daughters was his fault.

But she didn't, she never did. The door slowly opened and the round face of Bodhan peered out, his gaze appraising. "Master Fenris," he said in a falsely pompous tone. "Do come in."

Fenris carefully stepped over the threshold. "Thank you."

"You're positively soaked, ser! You'd think you swam here," Bodhan said cheerfully. "Come, warm yourself by the fire. Mistress Leandra will be along soon."

Fenris nodded. "Thank you," he said again, painfully aware of the fact that every step he took left a puddle of rainwater on the spotless floors.

But the fire was warm, and beyond the room he saw the banquet table carefully set for two. So he set about drying himself in front of the blazing fire, for the fastidiously clean Amell mansion always made him feel boorish and dirty, as if he slept into the filthy gutters or trenches. His own mansion was a stark contrast to the gleaming windows, immaculate floors, and colorful paintings that adorned this home.

He coughed, a wet hacking sound that echoed through the expansive halls, and glanced over his shoulder, praying Leandra hadn't heard. Constant exposure to the weather had finally begun to take a toll on his health. It had been many years since he last lived in Tevinter, but his body's preference for warm, dry climates did not see to be fading. When would these wretched rains end, he wondered. Not soon enough.

"Your cough is worse," said a reproachful voice behind him, and he turned, trying his hardest not to flush with embarrassment. Leandra carefully descended the stairs, her hand white on the banister, her brows pulled low over painfully concerned eyes.

"It's nothing," he said evasively, pushing his now dry hair out of his eyes. "Just the weather."

For a moment, Leandra looked as if she wanted to argue, but she seemed to think better of it. "Well, come on then. Let me feed you, at least."

Though Leandra Amell was once again restored to her noble status, she refused to totally rely on servants and maids. Aside from Bodhan and the savant boy he stewarded, Sandal, she was alone here. She cleaned herself, cooked the meals with no aid. The reason for it remained unspoken, but Fenris knew why; what else was there to do in this empty mansion but care for it?

As it was most nights, the conversation was bare. Fenris came here out of a sense of duty, but that duty made it no easier to speak to Hawke's mother as he once spoke to Hawke herself. The guilt made it hard to eat, as well. He spent most of the evening pushing the food around his plate, listening carefully to everything Leandra said.

She tried hard, he had to admit. She tried to keep conversation light. She told him of her exploits as a new noble of Kirkwall; the parties, the gossip, the scandal, and he listened as if that could earn him a fraction of the forgiveness he sought. She tried to continue her life as if she had not lost anything, and as far as Fenris could see, she almost succeeded. He almost believed her act, and perhaps, she almost believed it herself.

They spoke cursorily; she told him of Lady Therese and her terrible faux pas during lunch, and he spoke briefly of his assignment. He had not been hired in confidence, so he figured there was no harm in sharing what details he bothered to recall.

There was a moment though, where her expression lost its levity and became as broken as he knew she felt. She stared at the empty seat before her, and as Fenris waited for her to speak again, he noticed with horror that her grey eyes - those same startling grey eyes - swam with tears.

"Leandra . . . what-?"

She didn't look at him, but even avoiding his gaze he knew now that there were no more walls between them. The performance was over. "I'm afraid it is my fault," she whispered.

There was no need to clarify what was her fault, and Fenris' first reaction was one of complete disbelief. How could this whole mess be her fault? What had she done? "It isn't," he said firmly.

"You don't have to spare me, Fenris. I'm not made of glass," she said, a familiar bite in her tone. "It is. I drove them away."

Fenris shook his head. "That's not true."

"If I hadn't kept Bethany so firmly under my watch would she have wanted to leave on a foolish and dangerous adventure? If I hadn't blamed Marian for Bethany's fate, would she have left as well?"

It was a rather succinct summary of the situation, Fenris felt, and he found he could not deny what Leandra said. But nor could he agree aloud. Completely disarmed and impotent, all he could do was continue to shake his head, as if that meant anything.

It came as some shock to realize that he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to reach across the table and take her hand, even if he couldn't say anything. Words would be unnecessary then, as touch could communicate more than words ever could. It would be a kind of freedom, a relief. He stared at his hand slowly clenching into a frustrated fist, willing himself to push past his own fear and offer some solace to the woman across the table from him. He owed her, after all. Regardless of what she thought, the blame didn't rest with her.

But Leandra seemed to have gained control over herself already. "I'm sorry, Fenris," she said, wiping at her eyes.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he said, his own frustration leaking into his tone.

They ate the rest of their meal in near silence, and after they had finished, Fenris helped Leandra clear the table before departing. They had met for dinner for almost six months now, six months since Hawke left, and Leandra no longer bothered trying to keep him from helping with the mess.

In the time it had taken Fenris to visit, the storm had nearly passed. Instead of a fierce downpour, now no more than a fine mist remained, seeming to cling to the inside of his lungs. The clouds had become patchier, and Fenris could see bright stars peeking through the gloom. The moon bore down on him like a single, watchful eye.

He coughed again, slamming his fist against his chest. When was the last time he had been sick? Certainly not when he was a slave; Danarius made it a point of pride to keep Fenris in perfect health. After all, he was nothing more than a bodyguard, and so he was expected to be the best possible. Illness and injury were guarded against. What was it Danarius had once said? Ah; Fenris was a piece of equipment, a weapon, and one must always keep a weapon in perfect condition if it is to be expected to perform properly.

Did he still believe that? Things were certainly easier when he was an object instead of a person.

Leandra's guilt chewed at him like a raw, physical thing, mingling with his own. He had known Leandra suffered for her daughters. He had known that she missed them both fiercely, along with her long dead son and husband. He hadn't known that her grief mixed with guilt, just as his did.

Shame filled him. What claim did he have to Hawke? He was nothing to her, nothing but an accomplice, a cohort. Not even that, he thought with increasing dismay. He was a hireling. An easily forgotten face in the cast of her life, not even worth a passing thought. He had no claim to her, not like Leandra did. Suddenly, he was sick at himself. He was a vulture, picking at a corpse when he should have moved on long ago.

He rushed to Danarius' old mansion. He didn't have many things to his name. A few spare weapons and the book Hawke had given him. As he pried open the rusting door, he realized he probably should leave the book behind. It didn't mean what he wanted it to mean, and he wasn't able to read it anyway.

The thought filled him with a pain he couldn't correctly articulate.

He had made it halfway up the stairs when he realized the mansion was not empty. Someone sat in the high chair before the fire, the top of their head only barely visible. Whoever it was held out their hands to the dying fire, fingers curling against the warmth. They shivered with cold; probably drenched from the storm.

Fenris decided not to take any chances; he slowly unsheathed the greatsword on his back and spoke in a low, harsh tone. "Stand," he said, sounding coarse to his ears. "Slowly."

"It's only me," the voice said, weary and travel worn. Fenris nearly dropped his sword in surprise; it had been many months since he last heard it, but there was no mistaking Hawke's voice, even tired and defeated as she was.

"Hawke?"

Slowly, she stood and faced him and to his dismay, his first reaction was to rush to her and fold her in his arms. Foolish, foolish. He knew better than to initiate and invite touch. But the reaction was so strong it nearly overwhelmed his failing control.

The months had been hard to her. Her hair was dirty and straggly, hanging in tangled curls around her filthy face. Her skin was much paler than he remember, almost translucent; had he stood close enough he was sure he would be able to see the wandering path of her veins under her skin. Dark circles rimmed her bruised looking eyes, and even though her lips were turned in a familiar smirk, it was ghost of what it once was.

"It's me," she affirmed, taking his expression for one of disbelief.

"What happened to you?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

"You're no pretty sight yourself," she retorted, that smirk widening.

For once, he refused to allow himself to be goaded into the easy banter they shared. Everything he had felt since she left came rushing back at him, so quickly that he felt dizzy, disoriented. "Why?" he asked.

She carefully lowered herself into the chair again, turning away from him. Her gaze became far away, vacant; the flames reflected in her glassy eyes as he took the seat across from her. "I . . . had to find something," she said evasively.

Frustration boiled in his blood as he watched Hawke incredulously, watched her tuck a dirty strand of hair behind her ears. She had been gone six months, she had abandoned everyone who cared for her in this Maker forsaken place, and then had the gall to evade the truth when she finally deigned to return. "Did you find it?" he asked, his tone acid.

Her gaze snapped to him in an instant, speculative and shrewd. "You're angry with me."

No sense in denying it now, he thought. "Yes," he said curtly.

Her head cocked to one side, watching him. "Why?"

"It's not important," he said, purposely being just as evasive as she had.

But she wasn't having it. "I'd like to know."

"I'd like to know where you've been all this time that you saw fit to leave your mother in her state," he spat, simultaneously relieved and horrified at his words.

"It was for her that I left."

"You'll have to explain that one to me, Hawke."

Any trace of the sarcastic smile was gone from her face now; her eyebrows knitted together over narrowed eyes, piercing him. "I went to find Bethany," she said. "I went to make sure she was all right."

He hadn't expected that answer. He had assumed that she left Kirkwall to escape what had happened, not run to meet it head on. "And . . . you found her?"

"Yes."

Fenris rocked back into his chair. "Leandra will be happy to hear that."

Hawke quirked an eyebrow at the name. "Since when are you on first name basis with my mother?" she asked, trying to veer the conversation away from the current subject.

"Since you left," Fenris said, refusing to be corralled away. "I wasn't about to let her wander around an empty house while you made your way back."

"Boy, you just can't let go of a grudge, can you?"

"Apparently not."

"So let's hear it all, then," she said, gesturing in a casual manner though her eyes simmered with unspoken temper.

He hesitated, as if to hold back the flood of angry words he had stored up over the span of six months. Whatever relief he had first felt upon seeing her again was long gone; now he wanted to yell at her, he wanted to rage, to shake that irritating grin off of her smug face.

"There's nothing I can say that you don't already know," he said instead.

"Andraste's blood, Fenris. Talk to me."

It was a combination of things. He had reached the point of no return, the moment where it was literally impossible to hold back any longer. He had known this frustrating, charming woman for a year now, and every thing that he had carefully held back came rushing forward now, dancing at the edge of his tongue.

"Your mother has been suffering, Hawke. She's in this giant mansion completely alone. Her husband is gone, her children are dead and gone save for you, and you leave the first chance you get. Is it going to matter to her that you've found Bethany? She needs you." He paused, looking away in sudden shame. "We all need you."

"I wasn't running away from you," she protested.

"You were."

Her gaze darted away and he saw her lower lip tremble minutely. "Okay. I was." Sudden resolve seemed to have taken her then, for she looked back at him, a kind of steel in her eyes. "I had to."

And Fenris understood. The same guilt that had been chewing at both he and Leandra had been eating at her, perhaps even more than either of them understood. He saw it in the shame and guilt in her eyes, a single vulnerable moment that disarmed him almost immediately. Whatever harsh words he had for her disappeared in that instant, and he suddenly felt cheap for increasing her misery.

"I shouldn't be so hard on you," he admitted as he leaned forward unconsciously. "I know what it is to need to run."

She nodded, though he knew she didn't completely understand. A shaking hand wiped at her grubby face; she was so vulnerable, so bare. It was a sudden change, and Fenris struggled for worlds that would ease her guilt.

"Have I told you about how I gained my freedom?" he asked suddenly, desperate for a way to distract her.

"No." She blinked, swallowed her grief.

"My master, Danarius, had brought me to the jungles of Seheron. We were asked to secure an outpost for the Imperium in the war against the Qunari. It was a long and useless mission, and at the end of it, we were chased from the island. I was forced to remain."

Hawke was sitting straight now, unconsciously leaning closer to Fenris.

"I had been wounded, and I lost consciousness. When I woke, I found I had been taken in by a tribe of Fog Warriors and I was now under the care of the chieftain. I didn't understand at first; I thought that I now belonged to the chieftain. I didn't understand what freedom was. They showed me, though. Over the course of the next months." And though he knew how this story ended, he smiled briefly. It was good to remember them.

"What happened?" Hawke asked, totally engrossed.

"Danarius came for me. But the Fog Warriors didn't run; they . . . stayed. To defend me. I was one of them now." He swallowed against the familiar guilt, not quite a scar. "Danarius . . . he said I would always be a slave, even if I was not his slave. He wasn't the one that held my chains, my own nature enslaved me. My need to find a master, my need to obey." He closed his eyes against the shame, the truth. "It seemed futile, then. So . . . I killed them. I killed them all."

For her part, Hawke did not recoil from him as he expected her to. In fact, her expression was almost one of tenderness, of pity. At that moment, he loved her for it. "Then what happened?" she asked.

"The chieftain had wounded Danarius before I killed him. He told me that I was not a slave- he believed me even after I was the one to end his life. I decided I would rather be the man Tan knew than the slave Danarius owned. I left my master bleeding in the mud." He took a slow breath. "I've been running from him ever since."

"How long ago was this?" Hawke wondered.

"Three years. Give or take." And somehow, after keeping this secret for so long, he felt . . . lighter. As if an impossible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "I'm not sure what my point is, save for that I know what it is to need to run, and I can't really hold it against you." Despite everything, he attempted a smile for her. "Your reasons are not as abhorrent as mine."

She smiled back, really smiled, and Fenris ached at the sight of it. He had missed her smiles more than he knew how to express. "Thank you for telling me," she said softly.

"You're the first person I've ever spoken to about this," he admitted wonderingly.

"I'm honored."

"Heh."

Her smiled widened. "I'm sorry, you know."

"For?"

"For leaving without telling anyone. Without telling you."

"You're forgiven."

"Thank the Maker; I was afraid for a minute that you'd leave me hanging."

"Maybe another time," he allowed, smiling.

She looked around the filthy mansion, the bare walls, grimy windows, her expression becoming fond, almost tender. "I missed this. I'll go to my mother soon, but can I stay here for a bit longer?"

It was the tentative tremble of her voice, still frightened he'd turn her away, that defeated him utterly. Whatever it was now, whatever hung between them in a hopeful and fearful breath wasn't going anywhere. She was here now, and between them was a kind of trust, a promise, an understanding. He gestured to the pile of ash on the floor, still bearing the letters she'd made there half a year ago. "I was hoping you'd continue to teach me letters."

Her answering grin was a seal on that promise.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Special thanks to Cobalt Stars, Serenity's Melody, randomchick300, and AquaKBenten for your awesome reviews and thanks to everyone else to faved and followed this time!**

**The last few chapters have been kind of depressing, so in honor of kicking off Act 2 today, I present to you a non-depressing chapter! I hope you find it as fun (and romantic ;D) as I did.**

**I love hearing feedback from you guys, so drop me a review and tell me your thoughts! Thanks for reading!**

Fenris crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against the wall, and did his best to appear bored. He figured he wasn't doing a terrible job, considering the milling nobles of the Viscount's Keep glanced at him in regular intervals, simultaneously curious and terrified. Though he suspected that the nobles were more frightened of the markings on his skin than his actual affect. Fenris was a terrible actor.

He was unable to keep from glancing at the Viscount's office, try as he might to keep his uninterested facade. Hawke was inside, and every now and then he heard her voice slip through the doors, rising and falling in her usual animated cadences. Though a solid brick wall separated them, he could perfectly imagine the expression on her face as she recounted the situation to the Viscount. Her brows rising and falling, her hands moving to the shape of the words she spoke. Her wrists, graceful as a dance.

Earlier that week the Viscount had sent Hawke to investigate some trouble with the Qunari involving a counterfeit formula for the gaatlok, a meddling dwarf with no small amount of luck, and a band of furious elven mercenaries. The mercenaries had used the false gaatlok in error, wiping out an entire Lowtown street in the process. Fenris' lungs still burned from the poison, and even he had to grudgingly admit that Anders' talents had been useful for once, for the mage had cast a spell that suffused the poison-laced air, rendering the toxins useless.

So now, they waited. Hawke couldn't be much longer now, for she'd been inside for almost twenty minutes. The Viscount was usually brief, but the seneschal harbored a dislike for Hawke that he made no secret of, and Fenris found it entirely plausible that the he kept Hawke now as an expression of that dislike.

Across from him, Varric resolutely polished his crossbow, which he had inexplicably named Bianca. Fenris didn't understand the relationship. It wasn't completely unheard of to develop a bond with your weapon, but Varric's obsession with his crossbow bordered on the slightly insane.

"Will you cut it out?" Anders snapped irritably.

"She got a smudge!" said Varric. "Don't worry baby, I'll take care of you."

"It is beyond creepy that you talk to your crossbow."

"That's rich, coming from you."

Fenris suppressed a snort. They'd be at it for a while now, especially if Hawke took any longer. Varric never backed down for a good fight and Anders was so irritable these days that it didn't take much to get them going.

Since Hawke had returned from her search for Bethany two years ago, Anders had become an almost constant figure in their party. Where before he avoided them most of the time, now he was almost always by Hawke's side, looming like some overgrown bird of prey. Fenris had to admit that this wasn't exactly a welcome addition; he still did not completely trust the mage, considering he housed a potentially deadly spirit in addition to a sizeable amount of magical power.

And there was the way he looked at Hawke. It was often a look that softened the mage's usual pained expression into something almost agreeable, almost worshipful. Fenris couldn't put his finger on it, but it made him nervous. It made him inexplicably angry. He knew he had no claim to her, but the mage's attention put him on edge. It was hard enough coming to terms with his own feelings toward Hawke. It was another thing altogether to have to fight for her.

He would though. If it came down to it.

Fenris had attempted to come to terms with the inexplicable way Hawke made him feel over the last few years. He had resolved to watch, to . . . wait. However the waiting had begun to become impossible. Despite his general wariness when it came to intimacy, it was becoming acutely painful to look and not touch. The curve of her neck, the tumble of her hair, her lips, her eyes; everything was an impossible temptation.

But try as he might, he could not distance himself from her, for that was an even greater pain. Most evenings he spent at the Amell Estate, dining with Hawke and her mother. After supper, they would retire to the study where they would read and talk and write. At first, the evenings were mostly spent fixing his letters and poring over old books, but it had long since become a time where they could speak alone. And speak they would, often into the early hours of the morning.

The office door burst open and Hawke strode through looking vaguely annoyed, the seneschal leering at her back. Her expression brightened when she met his gaze, though, and he couldn't help but to smile back. The last two years had been kind to her, Fenris though at he studied her. She had let her dark hair grow long and her face was somewhat leaner, somewhat older. Every now and then she would gaze at the open water through the chains of the gallows, her eyes so impossibly distant that he would wonder if she would ever return from her fugue, though when she would look back to him, she would smile, and he would know.

"Cut it out, you two," she said to Anders and Varric.

"He started it," said Varric, pointing at the irate mage.

"And I'll finish it if you don't." She beckoned for them to follow her with a quirk of her finger.

"What did the Viscount want?" Fenris asked her, falling into step beside her.

Hawke sighed. "Some Qunari have gone missing. He wants me to look into it."

This was unsettling, but not much of a surprise. Tensions between the Qunari, the Chantry, and the mages had reached new heights in the last weeks. "Do you suspect foul play?"

"What else could it be in this city?" said Hawke, suddenly looking wan. "Everyone's crammed in here like a barrel of fish, and no one wants to play nice. Or share."

She spoke lightly, but Fenris could hear the real weariness underneath. He knew that she slept little, that she spent the restless hours of the night looking for things to fix, people to help. Her status as nobility had changed nothing, especially not regarding her reputation in the lower reaches of the city. She was still Hawke, smuggler queen, and as long as she remained as a citizen of Kirkwall, there would always be those who needed her aid.

He glanced at the high windows of the Keep/"Perhaps you could resume the search tomorrow," he said slowly. "Likely it'll still be there."

She grinned at him. "I see what you're saying. I needed to talk to Aveline anyway; she sent me an uncharacteristically urgent note."

"If it's another guard task, it can wait too," he said firmly.

"I promise we won't stay long. I need a drink, anyways."

At this, Varric cheered. "That's what I like to hear," he said, grinning up at Hawke. "Meet you there?"

Hawke saluted him, and with a cheerful wave he caught Anders by the elbow and steered the irritated mage toward the ornately set double doors, dragging him into the bright daylight beyond.

They strode through the high halls of the Keep, the milling nobles cutting a wide berth around them as they went. Fenris could hear their whispers drift behind them like a wake, Hawke's name on their lips. Hawke had become somewhat notorious in the years she had lived in Hightown. It was largely unheard of for a known smuggler and adventurer to ascend so far, and the return of the Amells fueled the gossip mill for many months. Of course, on the heels of her status had come the inevitable interest among the male nobles, who saw only that she was beautiful, and thought to take her for their own. For the hundredth time that day, Fenris had to remind himself that it was none of his business and she was free to do whatever she wished.

They found Aveline restlessly pacing her office, her brow furrowed. She wore plate mail bearing the Captain of the Guard's mark; usually the effect was quite powerful, but at the moment it seemed to have diminished her. She was so preoccupied she didn't seem to notice them at first, only turning to greet them when Hawke noisily cleared her throat.

"Hawke! I didn't see you there!" she said, startled.

"Maker help me. What's the matter?" As long as they had known the guard captain, it had been utterly impossible to ruffle her so, and even more impossible to sneak up on her.

"Nothing! Nothing is the matter. I just need you to do something for me."

"Uh-huh."

"Honest!"

"Right. What did you need me to do?"

Aveline paced the length of her office again, and if Fenris hadn't found the guard captain so forbidding he would have laughed. He'd never seen her so disturbed. "Do you remember Guardsman Donnic?"

"The guard we rescued a few years back. Yes," Hawke said. She had an impeccable memory when it came to faces and names, which contributed to her renown.

"Would you give him something from me? Don't tell him it's from me! Just . . . give him this and tell me what his reaction is." She pressed a small coin into Hawke's hands and quickly folded her fingers around him, nodding encouragingly.

Hawke glanced at the tiny coin and then back at Aveline, her brow arching delicately. "Is there any reason why you can't give it to him yourself?"

At this, Aveline seemed to recover some of her old temerity, for she looked down at Hawke with that old Guard Captain reserve. "No more questions. I'm calling a favor," she said as she drew herself up to her full formidable height.

"Yes, Captain!" said Hawke, jumping into a snappy little salute that managed to be earnest and sarcastic all at once. Fenris found himself struggling against laughter as he followed her out of the office.

He and Hawke exchanged a glance. Aveline . . . in love? Fenris hadn't known her then, but Hawke had escaped from Lothering with Aveline almost four years ago. Aveline had been married to a templar then, and he had died in the escape attempt from a darkspawn wound. From that point onward, she had worked her way through the ranks of the Guard, making herself indispensable in the process. Considering how staunchly Aveline was devoted to her duties, it did not come as a surprise to see now that she needed assistance with her own personal affairs.

They found Donnic in the barracks, sorting through a pile of letters drawn in a graceful, looping hand. He glanced up when they entered the room and smiled at them. "Hello, Serah Hawke," he said as he stood, inclining his head.

"Donnic! How have you healed up?"

"Well, thanks to you. I'd not have had the chance to heal at all if not your your intervention."

"Thanks to me _and _Aveline," Hawke put in, flashing him that quicksilver grin.

Donnic colored slightly and rubbed one gauntleted hand at the back of his neck. "Ah, yes. And Aveline."

This was not lost on Hawke; if anything, that charming grin widened. "I have it on good authority that you're going to enjoy this," she said delightedly, passing the tiny coin to the guardsman.

He turned it over in his hands, his brows furrowing. "What is this? A copper relief . . . ah, and it says right here- 'Marigolds.'" He looked up at Hawke speculatively. "What should I do with this?"

Hawke shrugged. "Throw it away?"

"It certainly does convey that, doesn't it?"

"Sorry to have bothered you," Hawke said, turning to leave. "Good day, Donnic!"

"Serah Hawke," Donnic said, this time watching her warily.

Outside, Hawke buried her face in her palm. "What a disaster," she moaned. "At this rate, he's going to think I'm the one with the crush."

"You're not, are you?"

She looked appalled. "Honestly, Fenris. Definitely not." She fixed him with a sly expression then, a coy grin that slowly spread across her face and made the air feel thick, impossible to breathe. "Not on Donnic, anyway."

Fenris should have been used to his reaction by now, but it never failed to take him by surprise. As the months and years passed, Hawke would occasionally stun him with a flirtatious grin or remark and he would have to take several seconds to reorient himself, holding himself still and steady until his heart calmed. They had become more common as of late, and he found himself wondering at her intention. Did her remarks hide the same struggle to control herself that he felt? Or was it all a game to her?

Hawke carelessly burst into Aveline's office, and he hurried after her, watching her long dark hair bounce in the hollow between her shoulder blades. She leaned on Aveline's desk and her hair parted, revealing a flash of the pale skin of her neck.

"Well? How did he react?" Aveline asked.

"To your garbage, you mean?" said Hawke, though not unkindly.

That sent Aveline pacing again. "I thought it would have been obvious. Metal is strong. Copper ages well. Flowers are soft!" she said, agitated. "He didn't understand?"

Hawke was agog. "Who would have understood that?"

"Fine, so that was foolish. Well, here." She thrust a carefully printed piece of vellum into Hawke's hand. "Post this schedule and hang back, listen to his reaction."

"And you can't do this why . . . ?"

"I want his honest reaction, without the captain watching. Please Hawke!" Aveline said, this time forcibly pushing Hawke out of her office so that she barely kept herself from sprawling.

With a long-suffering sigh, Hawke straightened her blue tunic, shooting an irritated glance at Aveline's door. "Finding those missing Qunari is starting to seem an easier prospect," she groused, but she tacked the schedule to the post and then faded back into the shadows so that if Fenris hadn't seen her disappear, he wouldn't have known where she was.

It wasn't a long wait; one of the guardsmen spotted the newly posted schedule and called to the others. They milled around, quickly mapping their routes, when a few turned to Donnic, whose expression had become one of incredulous embarrassment.

"Oye Donnic! Whose ass did you have to kiss to get the Hightown route?" one accused.

"Always been a make-work shift, that."

He looked horrified now. "Does the captain think I can't handle a real shift?" he groused before turning back to the barracks, his expression stormy.

Hawke appeared at Fenris' side and gave a long sigh. "Our lady captain needs some help, wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say you're right."

Aveline was distraught, pacing so quickly around the room she almost seemed to be turning in circles. "He thought I was punishing him? But it's a reward!"

"Aveline," Hawke said firmly, holding the captain by her shoulders. "You like Donnic."

She made to protest, but thought better of it. "Yes," she said, the way one would admit defeat.

"Is it so hard to just . . . tell him that?"

Aveline broke free. "Of course it is, Hawke! He would feel awkward or pressured. The Captain, making inappropriate advances, using her position to get her way. It's hard enough, this job; no sense in making it harder."

"I wouldn't go that far," Hawke smirked. "Look, these weird overtures are what's making this awkward. Just . . . spend some time with him. Go out somewhere and talk."

"How am I supposed to ask him that?" Aveline said.

"Well, it's rather simple. You open your mouth, say the words, maybe bat those pretty eyes."

Aveline was not amused. "Be serious."

"When am I not!?" Hawke asked, clutching her heart as if Aveline had desperately wounded her.

"Could you ask him? Please?"

"Maker's breath, Aveline. He's going to get the wrong idea."

"He won't if we all go as a group. I'll meet you there. It'll be wonderful."

"So . . . you want me to hang in on your rendezvous? Like a third wheel?"

"Not a rendezvous!" Aveline said quickly, panicking again. "And you're not a third wheel. Fenris will be there too, right? And Varric and Isabela."

"Well, sounds like you've got it all sorted out," Hawke said with a long suffering sigh, though Fenris knew she wasn't as put out as she pretended to be. She and Aveline were very close, and there wasn't anything that either wouldn't do for the other.

"Please Hawke? You owe me."

"Fine! Fine. I'll ask him. You better be there, though. He already got the wrong idea from that horrible marigold impression."

"I'll be there, I promise! You're the best, Hawke."

"Don't forget it," Hawke grumbled, ambling out of Aveline's office. She turned to Fenris again once they were outside. "It's like we're children, passing scraps of vellum with juicy gossip and admitting we like each other through layers of friends."

Fenris smirked. "I wouldn't know," he said. He had no such memories of being a child in a Chantry-yard, but through Hawke it was almost as if those memories were his as well.

"Count your blessings then. I never thought I'd be doing this at my age." She took a deep breath and steeled herself before stepping into Donnic's room once again. He glanced at her speculatively, but she forged ahead, unaffected.

"We're heading out for drinks at the Hanged Man tonight. Would you join us?" she asked, flashing him a winning smile.

"Drinks sound fantastic, actually," he said, relieved. "You said 'we'?"

"I did indeed. See you there?"

"Right. See you there."

They were nearly out of the Keep before she let out another sigh, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes and looking up to the dusky sky. "Why do I get the feeling she's going to bail on me?"

"You delight in thinking the worst of those who openly adore you."

"Are we talking about Aveline? She doesn't openly adore anything."

It was like this most nights. They easily settled into lightning-quick banter about anything and everything, sometimes going late into the night. Hawke was a natural combatant; her wit was sharp and biting, but Fenris found that he was more than a match for her with his natural sarcasm.

He'd never known anyone so easy to talk to. When he was a slave, he was rarely permitted to speak at all; so much so that he often found himself reverting naturally to silence out of instinct. Even Tan and the other Fog Warriors had been difficult to talk with for long stretches of time; their naturally intense demeanor encouraged him to silence more often than not, though it wasn't as unwelcome as it was when he was a slave. But with Hawke, it was hard not to speak. When they weren't arguing or bantering, they were discussing all manner of things; ideas that he had never thought he could share with another.

He would watch her as she spoke, and sometime he would lose track of what she was saying. There was color in her cheeks and her eyes would sparkle; her hands would move with each rise and fall, each phrase she spun like a story, like a song. She was animated, alive, fiercely passionate. He couldn't say it, he couldn't think it, but when he watched her and listened to her speak, it was as if his entire being became an affirmation of what he strove to deny.

The Hanged Man was particularly quiet that night. There had been a fantastic brawl the night before, and a good number of the regular patrons were off in their respective haunts, nursing their wounds. Blood still stained the floor, and the bartender was even more foul-tempered than usual; the brawlers had broken three tables and eleven chairs.

Isabela was already at the bar, beckoning to the irritated bartender with increasingly desperate motions. When she saw Fenris, she turned to wave him over. "Fenris," she called. "Come here for a minute!"

Hawke scanned the room, and she groaned when she saw Donnic. "You're going to leave me to handle Donnic on my own, aren't you?" she asked, already defeated.

"Apparently, it's just for a minute," Fenris said.

"Yeah, well you know what 'a minute' is to Isabela. I'll be lucky to see you in the morning." At Fenris' startled expression, she laughed. "Not that way, I hope."

"Definitely not."

"Well then. Wish me luck on my 'date'," she said cheekily, waving at him over her shoulder. He watched her carefully settle at Donnic's table and wave the bartender over for some ale; though he knew she was doing this only as a favor, he had to swallow the wave of jealousy that curdled his stomach.

With somewhat dimmed enthusiasm he made his way across the room to Isabela, who was watching him with a somewhat predatory expression on her face. "Fenris! Pull up a corner here and talk to me for a minute."

"Just talk?" Isabela had recently taken to openly propositioning Fenris. He wasn't sure if she was serious or if they were thinly veiled attempts to ruffle him. He imagined Isabela had to be the only woman he knew able to handle rejection with such grace, though. She certainly did not lack for admirers.

Her grin widened. "Yes, love. Just talk."

Fenris settled up against the bar, taking a careful sip of the proffered ale. "So talk."

Uncharacteristically, Isabela paused, seeming to measure her words and Fenris' expression. "Is there something between you and Hawke?"

"No," he said immediately, too quickly to be natural, and Isabela's grin grew smug. The pirate was notoriously nosy; he should have known she'd eventually turn her eye on his life.

"You're lying," she said coolly.

"I'm really not," he said, and it was true. Despite his desire, his fathomless want, he kept things between he and Hawke safe. "I don't see how it's any of your concern, either," he added.

"Hasn't stopped me before," Isabela said, airily examining her fingernails. "You want there to be something."

"I don't," he shot back, and this wasn't a lie either. Well, part of it wasn't a lie. There was a desperate part of him that could hardly bear to be apart, and there was a fearful part of him that shied away from any further intimacy. It was dangerous and impossible, the former slave in him argued. It was all he wanted, the man argued back. "Again, how is this any of your business?"

"It's not. I'm just trying to figure you two out," Isabela said, cocking her head. "There's so much tension between you two, it makes my stomach hurt."

"I'm sure you'll survive," Fenris said dryly.

"I'm serious. You're always together. You're best friends with her mother. You have all these little inside stories. You stare at her when you know she's not looking, and sometimes when she is."

Yes, he did all those things. They suddenly seemed infinitely more obvious now that Isabela had laid them all out like they were crimes. "And?"

Across the room, Hawke caught his eye, and her falsely cheerful expression became miserable. _Help me!_ she mouthed when Donnic wasn't looking, and he found he couldn't keep the smile at bay. He shook his head and she managed to mouth a few curse words at him before Donnic glanced back at her.

"That right there is exactly what I'm talking about!" Isabela said. "What is it with you two?"

"We're friends," Fenris explained shortly, and it was such a small part of the truth that it felt like a lie.

"Bullshit."

"We are!"

"You are so much more than that, and if you're not now, you will be," Isabela said, pounding the bar with her fist.

"Why does this matter so much to you?"

"Oh you know me. I'm a romantic," she said, smiling lasciviously.

"Bullshit. Who'd you wager with?"

He'd caught her. Her expression shifted guiltily and she fiddled with her empty cup. "Seriously, Fenris; how awful do you think I am?" she hedged.

"Was it Varric?"

She glared at him. "Fine! Yes, it was with Varric."

He shook his head. "Our lives aren't any of your business," he scolded.

"Ha! You said 'our', not 'my'. I knew it! Varric owes me five sovereigns."

"Good luck with your wager," Fenris said sourly as he turned away from her. Across the room, Donnic made his way to the door before slipping outside, leaving a frustrated looking Hawke alone at the table. Her expression was so comically wrought he felt the urge to laugh again. She positively stomped over to the bar.

"I knew it! Aveline bailed on me! That guard is convinced I'm in love with him now. Can you believe he told me he doesn't like this 'playing shy' business? Oh no! Apparently he likes women with backbone!" she ranted.

Isabela stifled a smirk. "Aveline has enough backbone for the both of them, I think. Or maybe just back."

"Hey now," Hawke chastised. Regardless of how upset she ever was with anyone, she didn't tolerate them picking on one another. "Look, here she is now. Come to explain this, I hope," she said, loudly enough that Aveline could hear.

"I- I couldn't do it," Aveline said in a small voice. "I saw you two together and . . . I just panicked! I'm sorry Hawke."

"You're right about that!" Hawke said. "He thinks I'm the one with the crush now! He likes women with a little backbone, not this coy business! Coy! Me! I could die of shame."

"We should forget this ever happened," Aveline said sorrowfully.

"Oh, no you don't! You got me involved, so now we're going to do it my way," Hawke said fiercely.

"Hawke, please! I-"

"No! You like this guard, right?" she asked, holding her friend by the shoulders and giving her a little shake. "Right?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"But nothing. You think you could talk to him on one of your patrols? You do that already, right?"

"Right, but-"

"But nothing! Tomorrow, you'll patrol the outer roads. We'll go ahead to make sure it's clear, and you'll talk to Donnic and get things rolling."

"I don't recall making you captain!" Aveline said incredulously.

"Oh? I recall you saying you would be here! This is your fault," Hawke shot back.

Aveline stewed for a moment, looking positively frightening. "Fine. We'll do it your way. If it turns out to be awful, I'm blaming you."

"It couldn't be worse than this terrible date," Hawke said, shaking Aveline again. "Have a little confidence, yeah?"

"That's easy for you to say."

"Hush up. Have a drink before I go," Hawke said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Suddenly, I'm exhausted."

* * *

They enjoyed quite a few lukewarm ales before Hawke and Fenris bade the others goodbye and set out into the cool night, making slow progress back up to Hightown.

"Can we go to your place?" Hawke asked, her words slurring just slightly.

He nodded, suddenly inexplicably nervous. She was a bit drunk, he knew, and he wasn't anywhere near sober himself. It was harder to control himself then. The caution that always filled his thoughts was further away, barely heard. It was easier to let go, give in.

He should have said no, he worried. He should have walked her home, made sure she made it up to her room; when she was drunk, she had the tendency to sleep in front of the fireplace beside her mabari hound, Pax. She would wake with ash in her hair. He should have locked himself away in his own mansion, as far away as he could bear.

Isabela's accusation was still at the head of his thoughts, and he realized how right she was. Whatever they were now, he wanted them to be more. Against all logic, he wanted them to be everything.

His mansion was just as dark and filthy as ever, but Hawke looked at the threshold as if it was home, as if she had longed to return there for days. "I dream about here sometimes," she slurred, giggling as she stumbled up the stairs.

She folded herself in the high-backed chair as Fenris went about lighting a fire. He heard her shiver though it wasn't cold, and he felt her watch him; her gaze was a physical sensation, a whispered touch. He ached for it.

The fire was slow to start, despite his prodding. Her eyes shone weirdly in the low light, and though somewhere he knew it was wrong to stare he couldn't look away. For once, she wasn't smiling; her expression was aching and full, desperate and needing. Her expression mirrored his own conflict, and he turned away.

"Fenris," she said after a long time, and her voice was so suddenly intimate he shuddered from the force of it. "What is this?"

Her question was vague but he knew exactly what she spoke of. The room had become thick with tension, so much so that Fenris feared he would drown in it. "I don't know," he said, his voice hoarse.

"I know you," she said, clumsily scooting her seat closer to his. "I know this scares you."

She was drunk, he was drunk; how was it that she saw him so clearly through this haze? A part of him feared her then. What could he say? This was sudden and terrifying; three years of knowing her and growing closer, and he still wasn't prepared for this merciless onslaught.

"It scares me too," she said honestly.

She was too close, she was not close enough. She was so near he could move his face a few inches and it would meet hers. Would it hurt to touch her? He felt his hands tremble from the force of wanting and resisting, from the force of his fear.

"I-I can't-" he stuttered brokenly, desperately trying articulate his fear, his want.

"Shhh. You don't have to explain if you don't want."

The light was impossibly low, but still he could see the curve of her cheek, the angle of her nose. He imagined the warmth of what her skin must feel like, the lines of her pressed against his and it suddenly hurt to breathe.

Touch terrified him even now in this room, alone with a woman he knew would never hurt him. The first touch he had known in his life was the furious burn of the lyrium grafted into his flesh. He had known the lash and rod of his master. He had known only pain at the hands of others. Even the Fog Warriors never touched him, for he would never allow it. It was suddenly so horribly significant, now on the precipice.

"I don't know how," he said in that hoarse voice.

Hawke nodded. There was no need to explain that there had never been anyone else. Somehow, he even doubted that there had been someone before his memory had been taken from him. He felt equal parts ancient and new. Somehow ageless, in the stark of those extremes.

"I won't hurt you," she whispered, and the sound of it was a caress in of itself; he closed his eyes to keep it near.

It was then that the need overpowered his fear; it was a small thing to the outward observer, but within it was a cataclysm, the slow yet powerful shifting below the surface. He was changed now; there would always be this between them. He opened his eyes and nodded.

She reached for him slowly, impossibly slowly; he saw her hand tremble as it crossed the breach. She reached for him, and he accepted her need as his own. He accepted her touch as on his terms, for the first in his life.

Her trembling hand closed over his then, and he stifled the yelp of shock. Somewhere inside himself he had still expected it to be painful. He had expected that his skin was incapable of pleasure; there was only pain. It was pure surprise and heartbreaking relief to feel her hand over his then, and among the myriad of sensations, none of them hurt.

She squeezed his hand and he let out a shaky breath, half a sob. Confusing his reaction for one of pain she pulled away, shame heavy like a veil on her features.

"No," he said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry," she echoed, mortified.

He shook his head, and reached for her hand; speech failed him as it usually did, but this time he was able to speak through action, though touch. There was such a wanton freedom in it that he almost laughed aloud. Why didn't people constantly hold hands? How could they resist?

Her other hand reached for him, more sure this time. Her fingers trailed lightly over his cheek, up the planes of his face to his brow, his nose, the angle of his ear. He shuddered from the pleasure of it, the careless trust.

The fire never did catch on properly but they did not move from their places, chairs facing one another, hands intertwined. Even when Hawke fell asleep, her head lolling into the high back of the chair, they did not let go. He kept her hands for his, carefully wrapped in his own, and it was all. It was everything.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Special thanks to Serenity's Melody, LoLLY, CreatedInFyre7, R2s Muse, and Allie for your fantastic reviews and to everyone else who faved and followed!**

**So this chapter kind of sprung up organically while I was trying to write what will now be chapter 11. I know it's kind of silly to say that characters write themselves, but Hawke and Fenris just wouldn't shut up until I had about 4,000 words worth of dialogue O.o. And then I couldn't find a decent place to edit it down to fit it into chapter 11, so I just decided to make it its own chapter. May I present: my interpretation on the 'let's have sex!' conversation.**

**OH- I've started writing a kind of backstory mini series for Fenris called "The Lyrium Warrior" basically detailing how he came to be in Danarius's service and how he received those Lyrium markings, so from this chapter out I'm going to reference a few things there. Head on over if you're curious!**

**Alright, shameless plug over! Reviews are awesome! Thanks for reading!**

Sometime between dusk and dawn Fenris had Finally fallen asleep, and for the first time in his memory his dreams were vivid enough to remember the moment he woke. He saw the sun, heard the ecstatic screams of a coliseum crowd. He saw two copper-haired elves with brittle smiles that did not reach their wide eyes. But he blinked in the morning light and the memories were gone.

The events of the night before were slow to come back to him, creeping through the haze of sleep deprivation and hangover. He and Hawke had spent most of the day together . . . that had been nice. Better than nice; it had been a dream, the likes of which went beyond the ability of a slave. There had been something Isabela had said . . . and then he and Hawke alone in the dark, the room suddenly heavy between them.

The feel of her skin.

No, that couldn't be right. But as he slowly regained himself, every moment from the night before came rushing back to him, so quickly that the rush made him light-headed. They had been quite drunk, and yet instead of taking her home he brought her to his master's crumbling mansion. He remembered her hand reaching toward him, touching him, holding.

Across from him, Hawke slept. Her head lolled to the side awkwardly, and her legs were curled up beneath her. Her blue tunic was rumpled from sleep, hanging askew off her narrow shoulders. That soft hair, dark as a crow's wing, draped messily over the left side of her face. Her hands were still folded in his. Skin soft as silk, pale and freckled and perfect. Somehow, they had clung together through the entire night.

Whatever courage he had found the night before was gone now. He dropped her hands as if they could burn him, gulping for breath, swallowing desperately. She mumbled sleepily and curled into a ball, her arms dangling over the side of the chair. Her fingers twitched as if searching for his, as if the sudden absence of them was painful enough to wake her, and though his heart pounded from the shock, the sight of it was unexpectedly tender.

She stirred then, her eyes opening slowly as she struggled to come to herself. Another lock of hair tumbled into her eyes.

"Fenris?" she murmured, pushing it away. "Wha- what's the matter?"

He wasn't able to say anything at first, and she slowly righted herself, moving her shoulders and neck to work through the stiffness. He knew she had remembered what had happened when her expression shifted from confusion to horror.

"Oh, Fenris. Shit."

He felt a flash of indignation as her hands fluttered, as if to beg forgiveness. It had not hurt, when she touched him. A small, broken part of himself believed it would, and it had frozen when she proved it wrong. "What?"

"Shit. Did I force myself onto you last night?"

"What? No!"

She tried to smile, though it was twisted by guilt. "Not like that. I . . . know how you are about touching," she explained. "I'm sorry."

He found it strange that she seemed to understand how he felt about touch, considering he'd never spoke of it to her. She looked so horrified and furious with herself that he found it a challenge not to reach out and console her. She hadn't forced him into anything. It had been on his terms. He had . . . liked it.

"It wasn't bad," he admitted. "Just . . . unexpected." Now that the shock of the sensation had worn off, it had been strangely wonderful to be touched in a way that was not insistent or violent. Had there been any touch like it in the world?

"Not bad, but . . ." she trailed off, looking lost.

He smiled; Hawke, his lady rogue, was feeling insecure. "It was good."

"Just good?" Now she returned his smile, hers coy.

In truth, it had been beyond his ability to describe. He was certain that if he looked down at his hands, he would see traces of her fingers brushing against his skin like impressions in sand. He felt different by the light of this day than he had the night before; irrevocably changed somehow. But he couldn't see how to put these errant thoughts into words, so he shrugged. "Very good."

"Fine, keep your secrets. I'll have them one day, you know."

"We'll see about that."

She grinned- for once at a loss for words- and wrapped her arms around herself, holding tightly. He thought she might grin, but instead she bit her lip, her chipped tooth a flash in his sight.

"What is it?" Fenris asked her.

"Nothing," she said, looking away.

"Your face can't lie nearly as well as your words can."

"Not to you, anyway," she said, smirking. "I suspect you read minds."

"I know that's not true," he said, feeling laughter bubble within him. And it was true; though her face was ridiculously expressive, he often found himself wishing he could know exactly what she thought, how she felt. "Really, what is it?"

Hawke hesitated, seeming to try and organize her thoughts. "I . . . don't want to scare you away," she said finally, picking at her hands. "I care for you."

She spoke softly, and yet her voice filled the room, filled him. He coughed nervously. "Scare me away?" he hedged.

"Yes, scare you away. I know how you are."

"And how is that?"

She threw up her arms, frustrated. "Reticent. Cranky. Slow to trust."

He was indeed all those things. "When you put it like that, I wonder why you bother."

"I bother because I care." She pointed at him, eyes narrowed in intent. "I mean, I'm not wrong, am I? If I pounced on you right now and made passionate, bizarre love to you, are you telling me your instinct wouldn't be to run away?"

Maker. She was trying to kill him. He coughed again, trying to organize his suddenly incomprehensible thoughts, trying so desperately to ignore the sensation that his head was no longer connected to the rest of him. "I-I suppose," he managed.

This didn't seem to bother her. "Exactly. And I don't want you to run away." She paused, considering. "Though, if you don't want me to bother at all, please say so before I make an even bigger ass of myself. As if that were possible!"

It was as if there was a block in his mind, suddenly stopping him from formulating a coherent thought. Of course he wanted her to bother. It seemed like every part of his body had become an obvious confirmation of that fact. Why, then, was it so difficult to translate that confirmation into words. "No, I . . ."

"You don't want me to bother?" she supplied, and her lips curved downward in a heartbreaking frown.

"No! I do," he said, feeling monumentally stupid. "Maker's breath, Hawke."

"What?" She was indignant now, struggling against a grin.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm a fighter, Hawke. A swordsman. And a slave."

"Former slave," she corrected.

"I- yes. Thank you. I'm good at those things. Pretty good at those things."

"You're amazing," she supplied, beaming. His reciprocation had made her bold, careless. Her smile shone like the sun.

He coughed again, though he was secretly pleased at her words. "If you say so. My point is, I've known little else but fighting and serving and running in my life, and I'm . . . ill equipped for this."

"So you've never . . . ?"

"No." How was it that the room suddenly felt airless? How had the sound of his breathing grown louder than the forge?

"Not even before you got those markings?"

"If I had, I don't remember. I doubt it, anyway."

"I see," she said, suddenly thoughtful.

Fenris watched her, waiting for her to divulge in return. He was suddenly curious, and yet the words were heavy on his tongue. "Have you . . .?"

"What? Had sex?"

Maker. He wasn't sure if he loved or hated that she cut right to the issue so easily, despite his evasions. "Yes," he said, humiliated.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Would it horrify you if I said yes?"

Not horrify, not exactly. It startled him how suddenly jealous he felt, though. "No," he said, though his expression twisted. "Who was he?"

"And you're sure he's a 'was'?" she said, flashing him that quicksilver smile.

"I'm not," he said, much heavier than he intended.

"Oh, Fenris. I was teasing," she said tenderly, and despite this ridiculous conversation and his growing feeling of clumsy stupidity, he smiled tentatively back. "Let's see . . ."

"It's a struggle to remember this person?"

"Not terribly. He was just . . . how do I say this without sounding like a terrible person?" She sighed, frustrated. "He was the most boring man I've ever met."

Fenris almost laughed aloud; he had been expecting something completely different, but now that she had admitted her first love had been boring, it seemed to suit her completely. "That's you trying not to be offensive?"

"Hush, you," she retorted, but her eyes were light.

He allowed himself a grin. "How was this poor man boring?"

She sighed, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "Daved was very provincial. He had no intention of ever leaving Lothering or becoming anything other than a farmer like his father before him. And his father before him! It was all he spoke of, when we even spoke at all."

"You didn't speak?"

"Not much. We were besotted at first, and then after we had sex, he became obsessed with asking me to marry him."

"But you didn't want to."

"The very idea of marrying him nauseated me, actually. Can you imagine me as a farmer's wife?"

He tried to. He pictured Hawke in a dirty house dress, her long black hair tied up in a messy knot, hordes of children clinging to her skirts. He imagined her cooking and cleaning a farmhouse, waiting for her husband to come home from the fields. He couldn't help it; he laughed aloud. "Not at all," he gasped through laughter.

She laughed as well. "It's ridiculous, isn't it? It was almost as if he didn't know me at all, and was instead trying to change me into the woman he wanted, a woman who had no problem living in a dirty farm town the rest of her life."

"You didn't want to stay in Lothering?" Now this Fenris had never heard her mention before.

"Maker, no. Have you ever been that far south?"

"I haven't, no."

She leaned forward, suddenly animated. "Lothering is a farm town. The largest building there is this ramshackle Chantry, but there is always the Chant, every hour of daylight. You could hear the Chant for miles. Then you grow up and get tall - well, taller - and all these small places can't fit you anymore. You know every path, every tree, every farmhouse." She trailed off, and her eyes were suddenly so distant that he wondered what it was she saw - snow topped mountains, raging seas, the lush forests of Seheron. "You start wondering if the rest of the world is out there, if it is different."

Fenris smiled at this. It was very easy to see his boisterous, animated Hawke - a woman of the city- bounding around a tiny farm town in her tireless search for adventure. She was small - hardly as tall as he shoulders - and he wondered of such a place that made her feel too big. "I can see that."

"It's why I volunteered for Ostagar with-" she paused, her eyes suddenly pained. "- with Carver," she finished.

"I see," Fenris said, and a wretched lump of guilt formed in his gut. He should have known prodding her for her old life would have eventually brought up her long dead brother.

She clucked her tongue. "Well, that, and Carver was always such a show-off. I couldn't let him tromp off to Ostagar alone."

That sounded just like the Hawke he knew. "I heard about Ostagar. Was it -?"

"Was it as terrible as they all said? Yes." Her eyes were far away, as if the mere mention of that terrible battle had brought her there in that instant. "The darkspawn came, and Loghain didn't. You could hear the dogs yelping for miles - they died first, on the brunt of the darkspawn vanguard. Men screaming, darkspawn howling. And always I had Carver in my sight; so brave and good, using that greatsword of his as if he'd been born with it in his hands."

She took a trembling breath. "Only a handful of us survived. And when we came back to Lothering . . . it was a ruin. I couldn't get the smell of burned bodies out of my nose for months. Even today, I'll see it in my dreams." She shuddered, though the morning was quite warm. "Everyone I ever knew, dead, some of them half-eaten ... pieces of them, trodden in the dirt. We were lucky to find Mother and Bethany. And then . . ."

Fenris knew what happened next only because Bethany had mentioned it all those years ago. "I'm sorry for bringing it up."

She shook her head. "I brought it up. I answered your question; I could have chosen not to."

"That's true," he allowed. Though she spoke of terrible things, he couldn't help but to feel thrilled that she trusted him enough with the truth.

Though Hawke's eyes were still sad, her smile became fond. "I miss him. He was always such a showoff, and prickly as hell, but he was a good kid. No finer brother ever lived." Now the smile truly reached her eyes. "Did you know Carver was the one to chip my tooth?"

Fenris leaned forward, instantly intrigued. For as long as he'd known her, the story of how she chipped her tooth was a favorite game, and any time anyone would ask the story she would tell would be even more outlandish than the last. "I had no idea. Do you want me to guess how?" he asked.

"Nah. You've been a good sport about it, unlike Varric," she said, grinning. "Though if I tell, you have to promise not to tell anyone else. Especially Varric."

So she wanted it to stay just between them. Fenris couldn't help his smile. "You have my word."

"Right, then. I was fourteen, he was eleven. He was always such a brat then, and once when we were on our way home from the Chantry he threw my favorite book into the river. I was so furious with him; I could have thrown him in right after it. But I plotted my revenge. He had this stupid wooden toy soldier that he loved. Father helped him paint it before he died, and it was the dearest thing to him in the whole world. I stole it right before his eyes and then before he could stop me, I threw it in the river. It felt like poetic justice to me at the time; though it didn't take me long to feel guilty about it. I had at least five other books to my name, and all Carver had was that dear little soldier that Father helped him build.

"He was so angry; I'd never seen Carver lose his temper like that, before or since. He picked up this giant rock and positively hurled it at my face. Hit me right in the mouth and chipped my tooth, cut my lip up pretty badly too. He cried, though. He cried for days for that stupid toy, and I realized that little toy was Father to him. It was all he had left of him. I felt so completely wretched, I ran away."

Fenris was completely engrossed, and it came as a shock to see her eyes shone with tears. "Why?"

"I don't know. I just walked downriver for ages. I felt too guilty to go home. I felt like a monster. He was just a little boy, and I was older and I should have been the mature one. I knew that he was a brat and a wretch sometimes, but he was young and he was hurting, and he needed me to be steady. But after a few hours I got it in my head that I could make things better if I could just find his stupid toy soldier again. I searched for miles. The river wasn't too deep right outside our home, and so I searched and searched. I don't know how long I was gone, but I didn't stop looking when it got dark, and I was still going when it got light again."

Yes, that single-minded determination sounded exactly like the Hawke he knew. "Did you find it?"

She smiled through her tears. "What do you think?"

The world he knew didn't adhere to happy endings and poetic justice, but looking at the small woman across from him, he suddenly believed that maybe it could. "Yes. I want to believe that level of devotion and determination was rewarded in the end."

"Then that's where I'll end the story." Two tears chased themselves down her cheeks, and she wiped them away, letting out a trembling breath. "I'm sorry. I miss him. It's been four years since he died, and I still miss him."

Pity shook his heart. "There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Oh, I don't know. This was a fun conversation until I started talking about my brother."

She was obviously trying hard to put her sudden outpouring of emotion behind her, and Fenris knew why. He knew that she was sensitive to him and his general discomfort with intimacy.

It suddenly occurred to him that Hawke made many sacrifices for the sake of his comfort. She was a naturally physically demonstrative person; whether it was clapping Varric on the back, throwing her arms around Isabela's shoulders, giving Aveline a good shake every now and then. He realized she consciously reined herself in for the sake of his own comfort, whether she needed otherwise or not.

It was a startling realization, and a surprisingly tender one. So he decided to do the same for her. Though in the light of day and without alcohol to loosen his inhibitions he didn't think it would be possible to take her hand, he reached toward her tentatively. As gently as he could, he held her shoulder, forcing himself to stay still even though his first instinct was to flinch away at the contact.

She looked at him then, and her expression was full with gratitude, and something else beneath the surface, something huge and terrifying. He felt it move through him as well, and suddenly he wanted to do more than just touch her shoulder. He wanted to move his hands over her back, her neck, her skin; he wanted to feel the lines of her against him. He wanted to press his lips to the hollow at her throat . . .

He broke away, and she took a shuddering breath, still trembling from her tears. "Thank you," she said, smiling truly this time. "You're more than reticent and cranky, you know."

"Am I?" he replied, grateful for the change in subject and the chance to compose himself again.

"Yes. I hope this doesn't mess with your persona or anything, but you're actually kind of . . . sweet."

"Sweet?" Fenris wasn't sure he liked that, as the word conjured up connotations of weakness.

"Maybe that's the wrong word," Hawke said, gesturing in placation. "I don't know. There's something very good about you."

"I don't really know what you mean," he said warily. He didn't know what he had been like before he lost his memory, but from the point when he awoke he had never seen himself as a creature with characteristics. He knew that was due to Danarius' conditioning more than anything, but aside from the anger that flowed through him in battle, he hadn't felt much or considered himself as a true person. Though he had been free for a long time now, it was still a shock to be regarded as more than an object, as a being with thoughts, characteristics, feelings.

"I can give you a perfect example," Hawke said. "When I . . . left after the Deep Roads, you stayed. You kept my mother company. Why do you think you did that?"

Fenris frowned. Part of the reason he had done that was because he had missed Hawke. It was somehow easier to bear her absence with someone else who missed her. But he remembered the crushing guilt he had felt during that time, thinking that perhaps her absence could be traced back to his failure to keep her sister safe.

"I don't know," he finally said. "It didn't seem right to leave her alone in that house by herself."

"That's what I'm talking about." She said this with so much belief and fervor that Fenris felt guilty. Of course she'd come to that conclusion based on what he said; he'd made himself sound much more selfless than he actually was.

"Well, that's not all. I . . ." Maker, this was hard. "It was hard without you. And I felt guilty. You're making it out to be much better than it was."

But her smug smile widened. "If you really were a monster, you'd let me keep thinking you were some paragon instead of trying to correct me. Face it; you're a good man."

"I don't think so," Fenris said, unable to mirror Hawke's grin. There had been many terrible things he had witnessed in Danarius' service, things that he had done nothing to stop or change. He had killed many people in his master's name without a thought.

"Why not?"

"It doesn't matter."

She let it drop. "If you say so. I'm still going to think you're good, though."

"I don't imagine I'd be able to stop you."

"No, I don't imagine you would," she laughed. Her eyes were bright again and her cheeks were flushed with happiness. The sun filtered in through the filthy windows, catching at her hair, and Fenris found himself smiling at the sight. She was beyond stubborn, but she was here and safe and so beautiful. He found himself wishing that there was nothing to do today so they could remain here, curled up in their respective chairs, talking until sleep came for them.

A series of insistent pounds on the front door shook them both from their reverie. Before he was aware of it, Fenris had leapt from his chair and phased into lyrium, his skin alight with the all too familiar burn, his heart nearly pumping out of his chest.

"Oh, shit!" Hawke hissed. "We were supposed to meet Varric and Isabela ages ago!"

Shit, indeed. Fenris glanced up at the high windows and saw with dismay that the sun was high in the sky. Nearly noon, in fact, and they were supposed to meet Varric and Isabela at dawn. "For the love of-" he muttered furiously.

"Get your things! Aveline is going to kill me. I totally forgot!"

Of course she did; Hawke could be somewhat scatter-brained, especially after a night of drinking. "I shouldn't have," he said as they thumped down the stairs at breakneck speed.

"Good, so we can blame this on you? Aveline won't kill you."

They threw the door of the mansion open, revealing a mildly-irritated looking Varric and a smug looking Isabela, whose expression became triumphant as she took in the sight of Fenris and Hawke, in various states of disarray.

"I knew it!" she crowed in glee. "There's your proof, Varric. Pay up!"

Varric narrowed his eyes. "Please tell me this isn't what it looks like."

"It's not!" Fenris and Hawke said in unison; one insistent, one forbidding.

"Of course they'll say that now. It's exactly what it looks like," Isabela grinned. "Look at them; they're positively glowing."

"What are you talking about?" Fenris snapped. He should have known something like this would have happened; Hawke couldn't do anything in this city without someone finding out about it. Privacy was practically a foreign concept to these people.

"Trust me; I've seen enough post-coital glows to know what they look like," Isabela said, her smug smile spreading.

"Honestly, Isabela. Fenris was decent enough to keep an eye on me last night. Considering how drunk I was, I probably would have ended up in the gutter had he not been there," Hawke explained.

"Oh, I'm sure. So gallant."

"All right now," Varric said, holding up his hands between the two women. "I'm sure Hawke is telling the truth. After all, why would she lie to her friends?" He smiled charmingly up at Isabela, who scoffed in return.

"You just don't want to pay me."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, now. Aveline is already going to be sore at me for taking such a long time to get up this morning," Hawke said easily, slinging her arms around Isabela's and Varric's shoulders. "What do you say we focus on her romantic life for now?"

"Considering the lack thereof, I'd say that's no fun," Isabela pouted.

"Come on, now. She's on a patrol date. Who could guess how it'll go? Two sovereigns says she'll go through with it."

That perked Isabela up; her lips pulled into a smug grin once again. "It's really a chore taking your money from you."

They set out to the city gates and the patrol roads beyond, Hawke chatting amiably and plying her two friends easily into laughter, and as Fenris watched her he felt a surge of gratitude. Somehow, even when he didn't speak at all, she seemed to understand his reticence, his discomfort. And somehow, she didn't turn away from him despite it.

Was it really that easy? He had never known such acceptance before Hawke, and yet she gave it freely and without reservation. She gave him trust though he had done nothing to truly deserve it. She gave him time because he desperately needed it. She somehow seemed to care for him despite everything he had done, despite what he was.

She looked back to him, grinning that favorite chip-toothed smile that made the world feel strange and light. He decided, then. _All that you give me, I will learn to give to you in return_, he promised her silently.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Special thanks to my reviewers: Nocterayne, frenchxpanties, Mina, Serenity's Melody, CreatedInFyre7, and Torilund Archer, and to everyone else who has faved, followed, and read along.**

**If you have comments, critiques, or other thoughts, please feel free to leave me a review- I love hearing from you guys. Thanks so much for reading, everyone.**

"She is terrible at this," Hawke moaned.

Fenris found he had to agree. They had spent the last hour clearing the outskirts of Kirkwall of bandits and all manner of terrible things for Aveline's patrol with Donnic, and yet the guard-Captain had not yet managed to take full advantage of this opportunity. When she did manage to speak to the guardsman, it was about their duties as guards or city politics. One particularly awful conversation they had overheard involved Aveline commenting on the weather to a dismayed Donnic.

Isabela, for her part, could not contain her laughter. "I thought you said she was married before, Hawke!"

"She was!"

"How ever did she manage that, I wonder?"

"Maybe her husband did all the work?" Varric put in thoughtfully.

"I don't know. I only knew him for the span of an afternoon," Hawke replied, and Fenris heard a note of sadness in her voice.

"I'm sorry; I'm still having trouble imagining Aveline married at all!" Isabela snorted.

"Come on, Isabela. We can't all be as silver-tongued as you," Hawke said cheerfully.

"Thank the Maker for that," Varric grumbled.

Hawke snorted. "Let's go. I see some bandits ahead."

They crept away from their hidden place, weaving through the brush and trees with a quiet well practiced skill in the years they had fought together. As they grew closer, Fenris saw Hawke had been right; a small band of smugglers had blocked the road, their faces masked, their business undoubtedly sinister.

Hawke caught Fenris' eye, nodding toward the bandits, and he understood. He quirked a brow and she grinned, nodding quickly. In the time they had fought together, he and Hawke had developed a kind of silent communication using little more than eye contact and minute facial expression. In this instance, her meaning was clear; she wanted him to attack head on and gather the attention of the brigands while she crept behind and attacked their unguarded backs.

With a small grin of his own, he complied. Phasing quickly into the lyrium, he shot forward into the thick of the bandits, drawing his sword as he went. The lyrium burned as he always did, but he had since learned to focus through the pain, because of the pain. The greatsword seemed to weigh nothing at all as she swung and scythed through their defenses. He was deadly on his own.

However, with Hawke he was unstoppable. He was perfectly aware of her movements, skirting out of the path of his blade, expertly dodging and weaving, as if she knew where he would be before he went there. Her daggers were alive in her hands, glinting in the light of day. One moment she was beside him, jabbing under the path of his blow, and the next she was behind the bandit, sinking her dagger into his back.

In hardly any time at all, the bandits lay dead and their cargo unguarded. Hawke twirled her daggers delightedly, sheathing them with an air of satisfaction. "Oh, the things we do for the guard," she commented blithely, nodding toward Isabela and Varric.

"Nice of you to leave some for us," Isabela groused.

"My dear pirate captain, I've left the spoils to you," Hawke said, bowing in sardonic respect.

"Not going to hear me complain," Varric said, poking his nose in the contraband crates. "You do get results, Hawke."

"What can I say, Varric? I'm a woman of action." She hopped from the crate she had perched on, straining to hear. "I think that's them. Come on," she said, beckoning to hide behind the crates.

Sheathing his sword, Fenris crouched beside Hawke, their backs to the crates, their bodies painfully close. It came as a surprise to realize he wanted to move even closer still, though it was not altogether unpleasant. Her hands were gauntleted and he imagined the feel of her skin underneath; hidden and terrifying but amazing all at once and he felt his lips pull into a small smile.

All that you give me, I will learn to give you in return, he had promised. The understanding and care she selflessly heaped on him he would learn to reciprocate, his fear be damned. Carefully, so the others wouldn't see, he drew one finger up the length of her arm, so lightly he almost wasn't sure he touched her at all.

She smiled at him, elated, and squeezed his hand quickly before he could draw away. He felt his face warm, and it was odd; as if a lifetime of coldness and winter was slowly receding under the force of her care, her warmth.

"You have got to be kidding me," Isabela hissed.

"What?" Hawke said.

"You two seriously make me ill."

"What are you even talking about?" Fenris should have known Isabela would be watching, that nosy twit. He was similarly furious with himself; he should know better than to give these people anything to latch onto.

"You two, acting like school children with a crush. It makes my stomach hurt."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hawke said with blithe unconcern. "Now shut up; Aveline and Donnic are coming."

Varric snorted and Isabela scrunched down behind the crates, crossing her arms in a petulant fashion. Fenris wondered if anyone had ever told Isabela to shut up before. Probably not, though he imagined it was good for her.

He couldn't see behind their hiding spot, but he heard the clunk and clatter of Aveline's plate armor, moving at a brisk pace. There was not any conversation that could be heard between her and Donnic, not even a whisper, and Fenris saw Hawke's lips turn downward into a disappointed frown.

"Good patrol, guardsman," Aveline said, sounding falsely jaunty. "Shall we head back?"

"Yes, Captain," Donnic said.

"What is she doing?" Hawke hissed. "I can't believe it; she's not even going to talk to him."

"You owe me two sovereigns," Isabela whispered back, but Hawke was so upset she didn't seem to hear her. With a grunt, she leapt over the crates and jumped down into Aveline's path. Fenris scrambled to follow her, ignoring the delighted mutterings of Isabela and Varric behind him.

Hawke's expression was uncharacteristically severe, and she crossed her arms across her chest as the two guards approached her.

"Hawke! Fancy seeing you-" Aveline began.

"Stop it," Hawke cut her off, narrowing her eyes. "Tell him."

"Tell me what, Captain?" Donnic asked, looking back and forth between the two women.

"Hawke, what are you talking about?" Aveline said, shaking her head when Donnic looked away, her eyes wide and pleading.

But Hawke either did not notice or didn't care. "I think you two should discuss your more than platonic feelings for each other," she said firmly.

Aveline's expression of horror rivaled Donnic's expression of pure shock. He turned to her, his eyes wide as saucers. "C-captain?"

Aveline's response was to bury her bright red face in her palm.

Donnic coughed, his own face going scarlet. "I- I see. If you'll excuse me, I need-" he trailed off, and without looking at Aveline set out to the city walls, moving faster than Fenris though was possible for a man clad in heavy plate.

Aveline stared at Hawke, her face carrying the acute pain of the betrayed. "I thought we were friends, Hawke."

"Friends sometimes push," she said gently.

Without another word, Aveline turned away from Hawke and strode back toward the city limits, never looking back. Hawke's shoulders slumped as she watched her friend go, her expression pained.

"That could have gone better," Varric remarked.

Hawke shook her head. "I'm not wrong," she said emphatically. "Give him a few hours to wrap his head around it, and you'll see."

"I'll take that bet," Isabela said cheerfully.

But Hawke shook her head. "No more wagers. At least not on Aveline's life."

"Does that mean you're not going to pay me my two sovereigns?"

"Maker's breath. Fine!" Hawke sighed, digging through her pockets and pressing two gold coins in the pirate's palm. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Isabela said with a wide smile.

Hawke shook her head. "Come on. We've got things to do today."

* * *

The journey back to Kirkwall took ultimately less time that Fenris had expected. Now that the roads were clear of brigands and other opportunists, it was easy as anything to slip back into the city walls. Varric wondered if they should check on Aveline, considering the damage they had done, but Hawke flatly refused.

"She needs time," she said. "They both do. We've done what we can, and the rest is up to them."

"Do you think she'll ever forgive you?" Varric wondered.

"Yeah, she will. Grudges are not Aveline's strong suit."

"You sure about that, Hawke?"

"I'm sure," Hawke said with the stout faith of a devoted friend. "She's mad now, but when she and Donnic finally figure out whatever is between them, she'll be thankful. Even if they don't, she'll know it wasn't to be and eventually move on. It's win-win."

"If you say so," Varric said. He didn't sound convinced.

They stopped briefly to leave Varric at the Merchant's Guild, for he had business there. Somewhat sensitive business, Fenris surmised, for he did not look keen on divulging any details.

"You sure you don't want any help with this job?" Hawke asked him as they readied to leave.

"No, I'm not sure. But it's fine. Meet you at the Hanged Man later," he said grudgingly, watching Hawke leave with a pointedly wistful air.

"What have we got now?" Isabela asked, idly fondling her gold pouch.

"Our little lamb Feynriel is in trouble again," Hawke replied.

Fenris scowled. He didn't trust the odd half-elven mage, though that was hardly special in itself. No, there was something a bit strange about the boy, strange and disconcerting. At the least, he seemed to find himself in much more trouble than was customary, even for a mage.

"Little lamb indeed. He had lovely eyes," Isabela said dreamily.

"I can't say I remember what his eyes look like," Hawke remarked, and so quickly that he would have missed it had he not been looking at her, she tossed him a lightning quick wink.

"You don't notice anything fun anymore," Isabela pouted.

"I suppose not." She ducked into an alley that would bring them straight to the Lowtown Alienage. "Anders is with his mother already."

"Oh, Anders is coming along?" Isabela said with interest. She nursed a soft spot for the brooding mage.

Hawke's answering sigh was long-suffering. "Yes, he's coming along. Try not to scare him away this time."

The last time Isabela and Anders had worked with Hawke at the same time, Isabela had prodded the mage over Justice so mercilessly that he had finally lost his patience and stalked away, muttering about nosy, disease-ridden pirates. Fenris did not like Anders in the least, but he had to work hard to conceal his amusement at the description, for he imagined it was quite apt.

"Oh, Anders is such a poor sport," Isabela sniffed, and Fenris smirked. That was also true.

Lowtown was always gritty and filthy; ash continually coated the entire district as it was not far from the Foundry, and the air constantly reeked of smoke and salt, but the Alienage of Lowtown was, if anything, worse. In addition to the ash and grime that coated the walls of the buildings there, the vhenadahl was stunted and covered in graffiti. Fenris did not ascribe to either city or Dalish elf culture, but the spindly, diseased looking tree struck him as quite sad.

Feynriel's mother Arianni awaited them outside of her dingy home, and beside her stood Anders and an elf Fenris recognized as the Keeper of the Dalish outside of Kirkwall, Marethari. Their expressions were drawn and apprehensive, and Fenris felt instantly suspicious. He doubted this job would be as cut and dried as the last time Feynriel had gone missing.

Hawke seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "What's wrong?"

"Feynriel is trapped within the Fade," Anders quickly explained. "Arianni would like us to retrieve him."

The Fade! Fenris expertly concealed the wave of unease that rushed through him then, but not without effort. It was only possible for a mage to travel through the Fade in a waking state. Every citizen of Thedas knew the Fade was a realm of demons and tricks, and he was not eager to put himself in its path.

But he knew Hawke would not turn down this woman. Despite her easy and jocular manner, the jobs she took were all ones that affected her deeply; she could no more turn away this mage's mother than turn away her own mother. Fenris wondered if there was indeed any distinction in her mind between the two, or if all Hawke saw was a person in need.

"What do we need to do?" Hawke quickly asked.

"There is a ritual Marethari will perform in order to send you to the Fade. I wouldn't recommend going without me, however," Anders said.

"Why is that?"

"I'm a mage. I've travelled the Fade as more than a dreamer."

Fenris didn't think this experience warranted trust, but he kept his protests to himself. Hawke had that oddly determined expression on her face, and he knew by now that there was little that could shake her once she got it in her mind to do something.

"Please come with me, and I will explain the ritual to you," said Marethari in her wise voice. "Arianni, I must ask that you please remain outside."

"Of-of course, Keeper," Arianni acquiesced. "Whenever you need me, I'll be here."

They entered Arianni's meager home, and Fenris felt his stirrings of unease increase. This wasn't right, he knew. Non-mages were not supposed to enter the Fade, regardless of any ritual this Keeper knew. In the Tevinter Imperium, it was essentially an instant death penalty for a mage to knowingly bring non-mages into the Fade, for both the mage and the ones he brought along. Though he had not been a part of the Tevinter Imperium for many years, he still felt unease creep along the back of his neck, sickly and slow.

"Hawke," he whispered, pulling her aside.

"What is it?" She was instantly concerned by his urgent tone.

He couldn't vocalize his fears at first, for there were only images to accompany them. The sight of a magister and his household hanging on the gates, their bodies being pecked clean by carrion birds. The jeering laughter echoing through the compound, the whispered lecture only barely heard; the Fade is no place for the mundane.

"The Fade isn't for people like you and I," Fenris said quickly. "There are . . . dangers there, within and without."

For once, Hawke was as solemn as he, for she nodded seriously. "I know, but . . ."

And he understood. Hawke took these jobs for the mages as much for her lost sister as she did for the people themselves. "Just be careful," Fenris warned again. The demons of Fade were a shapeless fear to him, for he knew what monsters they made of men.

But she smiled at his concern. "I'll watch your back if you watch mine."

"Agreed," he said, and he couldn't help but to smile in return.

She tossed him a wink before striding back to Marethari's side, their heads together as they spoke quickly. And though Fenris feared the Fade, he felt himself relax, if only just a bit. The thought of travelling the Fade with Hawke made it somehow less of a trial. It was just as she said; they would be at each other's side, watching for trouble.

"Nervous?" Isabela asked as she sidled up to him.

"No," he lied.

"Whatever you say," she capitulated, and for once she left him alone, wandering off to bother Anders instead.

Across the room, Hawke's expression became even more serious as the Keeper spoke to her, the frown creasing her brow and making her appear much older than she was. Fenris felt himself watching her, and his thoughts wandered. Three years ago, he wondered if Hawke would have approached this task with such solemnity. He realized she wouldn't, and that perhaps the years had endeavored to change her as well. The thought was worrying and comforting in ways that Fenris didn't exactly know how to articulate.

"I am ready for you now," Marethari said. "Lie back and try to be calm, and I will send you into the Fade." She arranged them on the floors and strode over them, her hands moving in time with her intelligible chanting.

Fenris felt vague annoyance that there had been little time to prepare or otherwise steel themselves for the Fade, but he settled himself beside Hawke, trying to breathe calm into his tight neck and twisting stomach. He felt his eyes grow heavy, and before he fell under he turned to face Hawke. She was already looking at him, he noted with surprise. Her grey eyes were incomprehensible.

* * *

His eyes opened. Before him was the Fade, shimmering and twisting in his vision like the surface of a lake. Disoriented, he held his hands out in front of him, and the shock nearly made him cry aloud.

His lyrium markings were gone.

There were no mirrors in this tricksome place, so he twisted around to try and glimpse as much of his body as he could, gaping at the stretches of unmarked flesh, bare as the day he'd been born. Regardless of the angle, the truth remained; his markings were gone. Oddly, he still felt the lyrium in his skin, the strength bristling in his body. He was still able to bear the weight of his greatsword with little effort. How odd, then, that he should only appear to be without them.

"Fenris," came a voice from behind him, and he spun. It was only Hawke, though, looking at him in wide-eyed surprise. "Your markings," she whispered. "Your . . . hair."

He pinched a bit of his hair between two fingers and brought it as close to his line of vision as he could, only to gape in shock. It was an oddly familiar shade of burnished copper, like a shade he had seen in another life perhaps, or within the confines of a dream. He had always assumed that his hair had once been a different color before he received the markings, but he hadn't put much thought into it. It made sense, he supposed.

Hawke, for her part, was scarless in this place; the jagged pink line that marred her throat – a souvenir of a blood mage some three years prior- was no longer there. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off of him, and her expression was strange; filled with surprise still, but also a kind of wistfulness. "This is how you were before you received those markings."

"It seems that way," Fenris said, caught off guard. He didn't like this place, and now more than ever. Though he knew he still possessed the powers of lyrium, he felt oddly as if he was without his armor, and such a feeling was not at all to his liking.

"I had not thought to return to the Fade in such a manner," an odd voice said from behind them, and both he and Hawke turned to the source. It was Anders, and yet . . . it was not. Ripples of the Fade pulsed over Anders' skin and obscured his eyes, and the voice itself bristled with a hard, metallic edge.

Fenris felt himself reach for his sword defensively. Was this mage so weak that he was possessed the very instant he entered the Fade?

Hawke was less shocked. "Justice, I presume."

"Indeed, I am Justice. Anders has told you about me," said the spirit. Using Anders' mouth to speak, like some grim puppeteer.

"Is-is he still in there with you?" Isabela asked.

"Yes," Justice said simply. "Come. We mustn't tarry."

They set out into the shifting world of the Fade, and Fenris kept his hands close to his blade. Justice seemed benevolent - as benevolent as a Fade spirit could be, anyway- but he did not relax his guard. This was a terrible place, and he half expected a demon to watch around every corner, lying in malicious wait. He heard whispers, spoken in hushed voices that he knew from some place, some fiction half-buried in memory.

Hawke turned to look at him often, as if expecting him to disappear. He realized with some surprise that she must find his appearance odd. They had worked together for many years, and she had grown used to his bizarre appearance. It seemed somehow backwards that his regular one should put her on her guard.

"What is it that we have to do here?" Isabela asked.

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "Feynriel is . . . a different kind of mage. A Dreamer. The Tevinter had a name for it; I forget what."

"Somniari?" Fenris asked. "They are very powerful, and very dangerous. This boy is a Somniari?"

"Apparently so," said Hawke.

"This boy Feynriel is at the mercy of demons as we speak. We are to rid him of the demons so he might learn to control his powers," Justice explained.

Fenris laughed, a disdainful sound. "There is no controlling a Somniari. They shape the Fade, they touch the physical world through their skills. They can even kill through the Fade. Once this boy understands his power, he will become corrupted by it."

"We cannot know that, Fenris," Hawke said quietly. "What's more, we can't punish him for a crime he has not and perhaps never will commit."

Her response did not come as a shock to him. He knew she shied away from his decisive opinions on mages, his natural distrust and wariness. "Do you intend to deal with the boy yourself should he become corrupted?"

He expected her to demure, to evade, but she stared him down with steel in her eyes, temper pulling her lips down in a frown. "I do. I'll have to account for the mercy I showed him. I'd rather give him the chance to prove you wrong, though."

"As you say, Hawke." He lapsed into irritated, frustrated silence and they continued on through the Fade.

Perhaps she thought him cruel or callous? She should understand by now that his distrust of mages was totally and irrevocably earned by their depravity. He had suffered his entire life for it; for their greed and foolishness. He had thought never to suffer it again.

Hawke led him strange places, he thought as he watched her shimmer and dance before him, all due to the effects of the Fade. He wondered what compelled him to follow her. Was it a need to obey, or was it the way he felt about her; the expansive, impossible weight of feeling that had grown every day since he met her?

Before them, a dark shape churned against the green of the world, undulating in a sinuous fashion. "A demon," Justice hissed. "Be on your guard, and do not accept what it offers you."

Hawke nodded, her hands already near her blades.

They approached the demon warily, but it did not attack, seeming to sense their combined power. "Mortalsss," it hissed in a languid rumble of a voice. "I am Torpor, and I would speak before we do battle."

"I'm afraid I don't parlay with demons," Hawke said coldly. Without a single sound, she drew her blades and launched into the demon, daggers flashing.

The Fade was alive with demons then. They poured from windows and walls as if they had been waiting for a meal, a scrap. Fenris drew his sword and propelled himself into the thick of them, spinning and swinging with all the force he could muster. He felt the lyrium scorch his skin, but he couldn't see it, and the effect was disconcerting.

Hawke battled a shade fiercely and behind them he heard Justice shouting spells, calling out challenges. Isabela danced and leaped out of the path of their shadowy claws, laughing lustfully as she went. It was chaos.

With a shouted invocation, Justice hurled a ball of fire toward the clustered shades, and Hawke and Fenris only danced out of the way just in time; it connected perfectly, obliterating the shades into nothing more than wisps of shadow and flame.

"They were guards," Justice said, his strange eyes glowing. "They watched the entry to the boy's prison. More powerful demons will await us inside."

They continued on in almost complete silence. Even Isabela, who constantly pushed for irreverent conversation was quiet here, her eyes reflecting oddly in the light of the Fade. The longer they traveled, the more wary Fenris became. It had been too long since they last fought a demon.

They passed through a doorway, and where one moment Hawke had been beside him, her lips curved into a somber frown, the next she was gone.

They spun around in their suddenly frantic search, calling for her. Their cries echoed through the high walls of this Fade prison, but Hawke was nowhere to be found.

"What happened to her?" Fenris growled, stomping toward Justice, rage clouding his thoughts. "If this is some kind of trick . . ."

"Save your distrust for the demons, elf," Justice warned. "She has passed into Feynriel's dream. We wait here for her to return, for when she does, a demon will return with her."

"How do you know this?" Fenris asked warily.

"I am a being of the Fade," Justice said. "This is my home."

So they waited. No one said anything, but their thoughts passed and wandered, and Fenris almost thought he could hear voices, very far away. Singing, wailing. It chilled him, and he felt the hairs rise on his neck.

Suddenly, Hawke was there and her daggers were in hand. For she hadn't returned alone; a woman-like demon had appeared with her, chains and silks draped over her body, a pair of horns curling powerfully away from her head.

"Take away my pets, and I shall take away yours," she said in a sensuous purr.

"They are not pets," Hawke warned. "And they are wise to your tricks."

"Are they?" The demon's burning gaze fell to Isabela. "What of the pirate queen who trundles along in your shadow, yearning for the call of the sea?"

"Isabela," Hawke said, but the demon pressed on, sensing weakness.

"Imagine, my queen. Imagine the roll and wave of the sea under your feet once more, and one hundred able-bodied lads jumping to your beck and call. Feel the spray of the sea on your face, in your hair. Imagine the freedom, my pirate queen, and the promise of an open horizon before you."

And Fenris could see it the fall as it happened, spread out on her features like words on a page. Every hidden desire Isabela felt, everything she yearned for the demon conjured up in her mind as clearly as if it was really before her and all she had to do was accept. He could see how badly she wanted to; her desire was nearly a physical sensation in this dream place.

"Isabela!" Fenris hissed, but the damage was done; she didn't even seem to hear him.

"Yes . . . " Isabela whispered.

Hawke seemed to know what would happen before it did. Just as Isabela whipped a throwing dagger toward Fenris she shoved him aside so the dagger flew harmlessly past. He snarled furiously and leapt to his feet, drawing his sword as he went. Behind him, Justice battled the demon, his righteous cries echoing through the live air of the Fade. Hawke and Isabela seemed to be locked in a dance, almost. They dodged and leapt out of the path of their blades, and it struck Fenris as vaguely odd to see them fight.

But in guarding against Hawke, Isabela had left her back wide open. With a grunt, he plunged his sword into her back. Instead of running Isabela through, though, she vanished in a sudden and violent puff of black smoke, gone the second he blinked. With a furious cry, Hawke leapt toward the demon, plunging her daggers into its chest. The demon's scream was high pitched and keening, but instead of disappearing like Isabela she slumped over on the ground, a wasted, broken thing.

Hawke let out a shaky breath. "Is . . . is she-?

"Dead? No. She will have woken now. You will see her when we leave this place," Justice said, and Fenris almost heard a hint of Anders' voice mingled with it.

They continued on, this time even more wary. Every strange noise caused them to whip around in apprehension and fear, searching for a lurking demon, a trick or trap. The sky seemed to burn above them, and in the distance Fenris could see the Black City itself, stark and cruel.

In the next instant, Hawke disappeared within the doorway again. Fenris cast a nervous look to Justice, but he nodded in reassurance. "It is only another dream of Feynriel," he said.

"Will the demon try to tempt her there?" Fenris asked.

"No. In Feynriel's dreams, he will try to trick the boy and Hawke will try to stop him." The spirit seemed to think of something then, for he fixed Fenris with a stern expression. "Do not let the demon tempt you. Do not listen to his offers, for they are lies."

Fenris bristled at the warning. He wasn't weak like Isabela. He wasn't easily swayed by passions and pride; he was devoted to Hawke, and he would not turn on her as easily as the thief had.

They did not have to wait long for Hawke to return, for in the next instant she was there, this time accompanied by a demon the likes of which Fenris had never seen. It was enormous and hulking, covered with cruel juts and spikes. It looked at them with savage, predatory eyes.

"You denied me the powerful one," the demon snarled. "Perhaps I shall deny you of your powerful friend." Its sick gaze roved over Fenris, and he felt his temper flare.

"Turn your gaze from me, demon," he called. "I am not interested in what you offer."

"Aren't you? Would you still turn me away if what I offered you was freedom?"

"I am free," Fenris argued, but the word felt weak to him, dripping from his lips like a lie.

"We both know you are not, little elf. You are hounded by the thought of your masters on your trail. You dodge and hide, but you know you cannot hide forever. Not even you." At this, the demon almost seemed to grin.

"Fenris," Hawke whispered. "Don't listen."

"Your beautiful Hawke may offer you a partnership to defeat your foes, but what I offer is the power to wipe them from the face of Thedas without the aid of anyone. With the power I can give you, you can crush them, destroy them, and you need not rely on anyone to do so."

Hawke was shaking her head at him, her eyes wide enough to wound, but he looked away. She was so small, he knew. Too small and too good. She couldn't do what he needed to do. She was too lovely, too beautiful. She would be killed or hurt or turned away. She would be broken, so easily - like a woman made of glass. He needed this power, he realized, and it was as if he had already known this. He needed the power of this demon to be free, to be safe. To protect.

No! He shook his head against the thought, blocking away the offer of the demon that seemed to whisper through his thoughts, his skull. He . . . he wasn't weak, he wasn't-

But the image of defeating Danarius was too powerful to resist, and it came to him as clearly as a memory. He stood over Danarius, the power of lyrium and the demon coursing through him. Destroying not only Danarius but every other magister of the Imperium and wiping their filth from the word. Then, he would be free.

"What . . . must I do?" The words came from his lips softly, as if in prayer.

"Only listen to what I offer," said the demon, and its li

Hawke looked at him then, and the hurt there was beyond anything he'd seen before or knew how to process. Her eyes were wide and dark with pain, and he blinked. He needed to send Hawke along, he realized. She needed to wake so he could gain the power of this demon without having to look at those large, hurting eyes. He drew his sword.

She was just as fast. Before he could rend her in two, she danced out of the way and the battle was joined. For every savage lunge and swing, she jabbed and thrust in equal turn. Behind them, the demon and Justice battled, but they hardly noticed. They were drawn up and bound within the intent of their duel, their deadly dance.

He felt frustration burn the edges of his vision. Didn't Hawke want him to be free? Didn't she want him to live his life without the yoke of slavery around his neck, without the threat of the slavers continually hanging over him? She wanted him for herself, he realized, real rage distorting his vision. She wanted him as her own slave, for her own purposes. She was just as bad as the magisters.

It was as if a veil had been lifted. What a fool he had been! To think that Hawke wanted his freedom; all she wanted was his power, his abilities. She wanted them for herself. Why else would she fight to stop him? She was a liar, a cruel thief! She was his enemy!

With a roar of anger he charged toward her, but she was not intimidated. One moment his sword was in his hands and the next it had clattered to the floor - along with his hands. He stared in mute shock as Hawke lunged toward him, her dagger points burying hilt deep into his chest.

The last thing he saw were her eyes- brimming, furious . . . betrayed.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Thank you to my reviewers; SarawrHXC, MusicMonster1999, BurnsVoodooDoll, Serenity's Melody, Dreister Dieb, Nadeth, Allie, CreatedInFyre7, Kainen-no-Kitsune, Torilund Archer, and Jedi Kacee, and to everyone else who read, faved and followed. Your continued support means so much!**

**Sorry this chapter took so long! I was sidetracked by a few real life things- bleh.**

**It always seemed a bit strange that Hawke wasn't more irritated with the party members that betray her in the Fade. I don't know about you guys, but I'd be pretty upset, especially if one of them was my significant other. **

**Please leave me a review if you have any comments or suggestions; I really love hearing from all of you. Thanks again, and hope you enjoy!**

Fenris awoke with a ragged gasp and his hands flew to his chest, where he half expected two daggers to be buried still. His heart raced frantically, and he held his breath to calm its harried beating. The memories were slow to come to him, memories of the tricksome Fade; he heard the demon's voice creeping through his skull, an insidious whisper. He first felt the urge to become powerful to spare her, to protect what he had grown to care for, but it had changed, mutated as the demon spoke. Care had twisted into anger.

He had turned on her.

The memories were slow to come to him, but shame was quick to follow, and the force of it twisted his stomach in a sick knot. How was it that the demon had reached to him and twisted his thoughts and feelings with such absurd ease? How was it that all it had taken was a cheap vision of his master dead at his feet to turn him from Hawke?

She lay beside him, still deep within the Fade. Her brow was creased and her lips were turned downward into an uncharacteristic frown; an expression altogether unfamiliar on her face. Her eyelids twitched and fluttered, and Fenris' shame deepened. Still she struggled in the Fade, with only the abomination to help her.

"You too, eh?" Isabela said easily, as if betrayal was a natural and expected development.

He couldn't speak. He was sick at what he'd done, sick at himself and his unforgivable weakness.

"Hey, it's not a big deal," Isabela said, alarmed by his expression. "She stopped us. No harm done."

Fenris turned to stare at her with a mix of incredulity and anger. Did the thief think to comfort him? How were those selfish words of any solace? There was none to be had for what he'd done. If she really thought there was no harm done, she was a fool as well as morally bankrupt. He turned away, too revolted to say anything in response.

A small, childish part of him hoped Hawke wouldn't care when she woke. He hoped she would spring to her feet with the energy she possessed nearly always, and they would continue their business in Kirkwall as if nothing had happened. He hoped she'd have a smile for him, a kind word of forgiveness. But he knew better. The last thing he had seen in the Fade was her eyes, and they were filled with the acute pain of the betrayed; full with equal parts fury and grief.

Slowly, she and Anders began to stir, and Marethari hovered over them protectively, anxious to hear of Feynriel's fate. Hawke's eyes opened suddenly, and her gaze roved over the room before resting on him, when it narrowed. Fenris resisted the urge to hang his head in shame; of course- of course she was furious with him. It had been selfish and stupid to think she wouldn't be.

"Is it done?" Marethari asked softly.

Hawke got to her feet, stretching her stiff muscles. "Yes. The boy's mind is safe."

Marethari smiled. "I thank you for your courage, Hawke."

Hawke nodded. "No thanks are needed." She strode to the door and pushed it open deliberately before stepping out into the twilight beyond, and to Fenris' eyes it almost seemed as if she had disappeared, as if they now occupied separate worlds.

He hurried after her, Isabela and Anders fast on his heels and to his surprise Hawke had not continued on through the streets of Lowtown. She stood facing the bay, her eyes following the progress of the gulls as they searched for refuse and food before the light disappeared. The odd frown had not left her face. His stomach twisted into a painful knot; in the years that he had known her, he had never seen her so removed.

The silence stretched unnaturally long and yet Hawke -always so talkative, so excitable- made no attempt to break it. Indeed; she hardly acknowledged their presence, and instead seemed like a creature of a different, better world. Isabela fidgeted at his side, growing more and more uncomfortable. "Hawke?" she said finally, sounding much like Fenris felt.

It was almost as if she just now noticed them. She turned away from the bay, her expression guarded. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry about what happened back there," Isabela said, gesturing agitatedly. "I don't know what came over me." Fenris opened his mouth to add his apology to the chorus, but found he couldn't speak. Had she ever looked at anyone with such reproach?

She didn't speak at first. There was nothing that passed through the wall in her gaze; it was almost as if they were strangers to one another. "I think I'll head home for the night," she said, and she walked away without another word. Fenris watched her go without speaking; he felt the desire to run after her, chase her down and beg forgiveness, but her coldness had turned him into a coward.

He had never seen Hawke angry like this. He'd seen her in a temper, sure. She was easily roused into frustration and anger; it came to her as easily as laughter did. She was quick to rouse but quick to forgive and he loved that about her; that she was a bit temperamental and unpredictable. But he'd never seen this look of icy detachment on her face. It was so unfamiliar that he thought as he looked at her that she might be a stranger - that this was her true face, and that he'd never really known her. He wondered if his betrayal had cost him something that he had not thought he could lose, something that he had not yet even gained.

Isabela shook her head stoutly as she watched the fixed point in the shadowy alleyways where Hawke had disappeared. "She'll feel better tomorrow," she said, and to Fenris it almost seemed as if she were trying to convince herself most of all.

* * *

Fenris slept very little most nights. It was a vestige of his life as a slave, when he could be jolted quickly from sleep and expected to leap up in obedience. It was the habit of every slave, conditioned from childhood, and even though he was now technically free, Fenris had never been quite able to break it. But tonight was somehow different; where most nights he was able to steal a few hours here and there, now he wasn't able to let go at all.

He tossed and turned and the spare blankets tangled around his legs like flimsy chains, binding him tightly. He thrashed at the image and the cold fear it elicited, throwing off the blankets as if they had personally wronged him. The shadows leapt this way and that over the walls, wraiths caught in a fearsome dance. Though his heartbeat calmed, his thoughts did not.

Guilt was an odd thing. Unlike the quick intensity of love and anger, it seeped. It slithered. It started small, but much like a clam worries a grain of sand into a pearl, the guilt grew into an almost physical presence in his gut, though Fenris was sure if anyone ever cut him open, the pearl of his guilt would be an ugly thing, far from beautiful.

He shook his head and rubbed at his swollen eyes. Exhaustion and guilt had turned his mind down odd paths.

With a unsteady breath, Fenris reached toward a stack of books Hawke had left him, the most valuable being the Book of Shartan. He carefully opened the cover, running his bare fingers over the softness of the page. He understood most of these symbols now, these letters, in large part due to Hawke's patient instruction. She insisted he was a fast learner, but he never felt he was. He owed this joy completely to her.

His tired eyes roved over the page. He read more slowly tonight than he did most nights, his mouth moving to the shape of the words. He was exhausted and miserable, and the book was not providing the reprieve he sought. It was a difficult text and Fenris worked over it most nights, though he was usually with Hawke when he did so.

Her absence was deafening in this ridiculous mansion, achingly felt in all the dark and quiet corners. There was nowhere to hide from it, and it occurred to Fenris that he perhaps felt her absence in relation to himself and not the mansion. Of course, that made sense. The realization gave no comfort, as he was fast learning that understanding was little comfort on its own.

Unable to find a distraction, Fenris lost himself in the guilty churn of his thoughts, allowing it to pull him under completely. Why had he done it? Why had he turned on her? Well, that was an easy question to answer, painfully easy- the demon had twisted him against her. Why, then, had it been so easy?For all his mistrust of mages and thei r ability to withstand temptation (or lack thereof), he had proved to be just as weak in the face of it as they. He had become no more than a demon's plaything, its sickly rough voice echoing through his thoughts and twisting them to suit its purposes.

His intentions had been good, at least. His first thought had been to spare her from the death and destruction that marred his life and his purpose; when Fenris and Danarius crossed paths again, it would be to fight, to capture. To kill. Though Hawke was skilled in her own right, he doubted she would be able to withstand Danarius, for he was a powerful magister and an even more powerful mage. He was considered in Minrathous as one of the most powerful blood mages to live, and some even went so far as to claim he was the most powerful ever to have lived, aside from the magisters of old. Fenris himself had seen this power first hand.

Fenris closed his eyes. The easy solution would be to leave, to remove himself and the tiger at his back from Hawke's life. Though as he considered, he knew that was no longer as easy as it seemed, for it involved him leaving her side. And that . . . he knew he could no longer do.

Perhaps he wouldn't have any choice in the matter, if Hawke never forgave him. And remembering the hurt and anger in her eyes, he realized that was likely. Even worse, he would deserve it if she should choose not to let this go. Exactly what he accused that abomination Anders of being susceptible to he had done himself! The realization sent another sick wave of guilt and anger coursing through him.

His hands tightened into hopeless fists, his nails digging into the flesh of his palm. No; he would not let this end like this. He cared for Hawke, more than he could accurately say. He would beg, he decided. He would plead for her forgiveness and understanding. He would explain the situation to her exactly as it had happened; the whispers in his skull, the care turning into frustration and anger. The ease in which he had been twisted.

If he was Varric, he'd have the right words for this suddenly monumental task. He'd take everything that he felt and knew and spin it to charming gold, for he knew nothing less would earn his forgiveness. He wasn't charming, not in the least. What was it Hawke had said? He was 'reticent'. It was a nice word for standoffish, with implications of ineptitude under the surface.

Charm was beyond his reach, so he would just have to be earnest, then. He could be earnest. He wasn't naturally inclined to earnestness -not in the least, not after being beaten for less! - but he could manage it for her.

The hours dragged and the fire slowly flickered and sputtered out, but Fenris did not get up to tend to it; he remained, cross-legged on the floor, in a state of agitated meditation. He analyzed and dissected what had happened, every single thing he had done wrong. It was necessary, he felt, to be intimately familiar with his failures if he was to atone for them properly.

He plotted his apology the way a general prepares for battle, the way a priest prepares for eternity at his god's hand. He prepared what he would say to Hawke with a sick kind of ardor and devotion, one he had not felt before. As a slave, any misstep was met with the immediate expectation of an apology, but this was different. In this case, he wasn't expected to do anything; rather, he wanted to. The distinction was enormous to Fenris, and it made all the difference. He couldn't remember ever wanting to apologize for anything in his life.

Dawn was slow to come today, and he paced restlessly, waiting. He wouldn't rush to her home right away, he decided. He would give her some more time; in his sleep deprived state, he instinctively knew that's what she would want. He watched the sun cross the sky in a slow arc, pacing madly. He was exhausted and yet restless, and the extremes seemed to blur in his vision; a night of high strung agony and introspection had frayed his nerves.

Finally, he could take no more. He slipped out of the back entrance of the dilapidated mansion and moved through Hightown in a state of exhausted focus. He didn't see the passers-by mill around him, their judgmental and frightened expressions stark as sunlight on their faces. He strode the familiar streets to the Amell estate as a man with a purpose.

He pounded on the door, too distracted for propriety. He realized only after he had hammered on the door for a good ten seconds how deranged he must look to the people milling about the commons. Though he stopped, they watched him now with abject fear and distrust. Of course- what did he expect? He was an elf bearing a giant sword, with fearsome lyrium tattoos etched over every inch of his skin. Without the grinning and eclectic presence of Hawke, he looked much like a criminal.

The door swung open then, and Fenris nearly laughed in relief. It was Bodhan, his rough face contorting in surprise. "What's all the commotion-? Master Fenris!" The dwarf recovered expertly, stepping out of the path of the doorway with a surefootedness at odds with his race. "Do come inside!"

"Is Hawke here?" Fenris asked quickly, searching the hall beyond the foyer for any sign of her. "I need to speak to her."

"I haven't seen her, messere," Bodhan said. "Please come inside. Mistress Amell will know where she is."

Of course. Though Fenris wasn't exactly religious, he offered a partially coherent prayer of thanks to an equally random deity. He would sort out the specifics later.

Leandra was inside, sitting primly at her desk and writing a letter in graceful script. Fenris didn't speak immediately, transfixed by the motion of her quill. He felt mildly jealous of the beauty of her writing; his own still looked shamefully rudimentary.

"Fenris!" she said as she noticed him, and to his distinct relief she did not seem to be dismayed at his presence.

"Is Hawke here?" he asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

"I'm sorry; she left some time ago," Leandra said. She set her quill in the inkwell and stood to face him, and as she did, her expression became oddly tender. "You fought with Marian, didn't you?"

He nodded, feeling stupid and pathetic. "Did she tell you?"

"Oh, no. Marian keeps so much to herself. Or tries to, but there isn't much you can keep hidden from a mother," Leandra explained. "This morning she seemed just as exhausted and tormented as you do right now. Did you sleep at all?"

Fenris shook his head, wobbling in place. The mad adrenaline was slowly fading as the prospect of apologizing to Hawke disappeared, replaced by a frustrated haze. If he knew her at all, she'd be gone until the late hours of night, working through her exhaustion. Already the apology he'd constructed fragmented and broke apart in his thoughts, the phrases jumbling into disjointed collections of unrelated words.

"You probably haven't eaten, either," Leandra mused, looking him over. "Come with me, please." She led Fenris to the dining hall, disappearing into the kitchen as soon as he had taken his seat. She wasn't gone long but his mind wandered in her absence. He was tired and miserable, and the light was exceedingly bright here, making him feel scoured, even seared.

Leandra emerged bearing a plate piled high with lean meats and bread, and though Fenris felt even more unworthy of the care and attention than he usually did, he accepted the proffered plate so as not to offend. They lapsed into silence as Fenris attempted to eat. His stomach rolled, but he cleared his plate gamely, not wanting to be rude. Leandra didn't push him for answers; she waited calmly for him to decide for himself if he wanted to speak or not, watching a pair of birds flit and flutter around the window.

"I came to apologize to her," Fenris finally said, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to explain himself.

Leandra didn't prod for clarification, for she seemed to understand instinctively that whatever had transpired between her daughter and Fenris was serious enough to torment them both equally.

"I don't think she'll forgive me," Fenris continued, bowing his head.

"I very much doubt that," Leandra said kindly. "My Marian can't hold a grudge to save her life."

Fenris considered. He supposed that was true. In her years as the queen of the smuggler rings and mercenary bands, there had been many that attempted to cheat and dislodge her, but she never bore them any lasting enmity. She would move on usually in the span of time that it took to make her way back to the Hanged Man, and by that time bygones were bygones - on one occasion, she'd even bought her temporary foes half a dozen rounds of drinks, and any hard feelings that survived the melee did not survive the party after. Fenris suspected this situation was different.

"I know that's normally true," Fenris said. "I don't think the same will apply now, considering what I've done."

Leandra didn't ask for clarification. "Will you do it again? Whatever you did?"

Fenris shook his head, picking at his ragged thumbnail. "No. It's not an easy promise to make, considering the nature of demons and their methods. But I would rather suffer at a demon's hands for refusing them than make her suffer."

Leandra sighed, smiling a bit. "Ah. I see. So this fight involves demons?"

"That doesn't seem to concern you," Fenris said, blanching at her nonchalance.

"Well, you're both alive and free of any demons. You forget, my late husband was a mage."

"I-I see." She was right; Fenris had forgotten. He decided Leandra was a braver person than he'd ever be, for he couldn't imagine what it would be like to trust a mage so implicitly. Though, something told him that Malcolm Hawke was nothing like the mages he'd known in the Imperium, if Bethany was any indication.

"Look," Leandra said, leaning forward slightly. "Marian is angry now, so perhaps it's best to keep your distance. But she'll calm soon enough; in fact, she'll probably come to you when she's ready to talk. She'll be ready for that apology you spent all night working on."

"All right," Fenris said. He felt vaguely better; no longer transparent and fuzzing at the edges, and he realized Leandra had probably known this would help him get his head on straight. Though he still could not nonchalantly reach out and hold her hand in gratitude, he did smile for her. He could not remember it, but he was very sure he'd had a mother of his own once, a mother who calmed and counseled as easily as if she'd been born to it.

"In fact, if she comes home tonight with a mind to be stubborn, I'll send her over to your place myself," Leandra said stoutly.

"Ah- I don't think that'll be necessary," Fenris said quickly, blanching at the thought of a furious Hawke forced over to his mansion against her will.

"I don't think it will be either. She can't hold a grudge; especially not at you."

"M-me?"

"Yes, you. You are her weakness," said Leandra, her lips curling into a fond smile.

Fenris was silent for a moment, considering her words. "She is mine," he admitted after the silence had grown nearly too unwieldy to manage. And it was true; in all things he had become weak for her. Where once such an admission would send him running for freedom, it did not now.

"I approve," Leandra said. "There are many men who would take advantage of such knowledge and use it to suit their own purposes. You are not like those men, and that is a rare thing."

And somehow, Fenris knew she meant it. Though Hawke was still furious with him, it was somehow easier to handle now, knowing for certain what he had felt for years. "Thank you," he said, and his thanks extended beyond the surface.

"It is my pleasure," Leandra said kindly. "It really is; I have the unique joy of being able to watch you two from the periphery, and I see how you affect each other."

Fenris wasn't sure what to make of this. "I - I see."

She seemed to sense his discomfort, just as she always did. "Ah, don't listen to me. I'm an old romantic."

And despite his exhaustion and misery, despite the pit of guilt that still hung in his stomach, he smiled. "It would be a mistake not to listen to you," he said, mirroring her grin.

Leandra laughed. "Maybe convince Marian of the same?"

"There's little one can do to convince her of anything," he heard himself say before he could stop himself. "Her stubbornness is legendary."

"Sadly, that's the truth. She got it from her father."

But as Fenris watched Leandra, the kind yet firm cast of her eyes, the determined set of her mouth, he knew Hawke's stubbornness had likely come from both of her parents. He only shook his head in response, smiling slightly.

They fell into companionable silence as Fenris finished his food and though Fenris did not stay long after, he felt marginally better than he had in almost a day. As he stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, he found himself close to a smile. The guilt was still there, churning in his gut, but there was a small measure of determination too, and he took comfort in it. It would be just as Leandra said; Hawke would come to him when she wanted to talk. Wasn't that their way already?

From force of habit, he made his way through the alleys and streets to Lowtown to the Hanged Man. In the two days since he had been there last, the owner had virtually made it like new. Pristine tables and chairs were arranged artfully through the room, still smelling faintly of pine, and the floors were scrubbed clean of the blood and vomit. There was no evidence of the fearful brawl that had taken place days before. Fenris found it vaguely disconcerting, almost as if he had stepped into a strange place, one he had never been to before.

Isabela was there, of course, surrounded by her usual throng of admirers. One of them, a foppy looking nobleman, was attempting to sway her in the direction of his room with promises of unearthly pleasures and delights, but Isabela did not look overly convinced. In fact, she seemed utterly bored, only brightening when she saw Fenris in the doorway. She waved him over with a grin, and he saw the crestfallen expressions of her suitors change to distrust and defeat when they caught a glimpse of him.

"Fenris!" she called as he strode to her. "Thank the Maker. Have a drink with me."

That had been the general idea. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said, meeting the glares of her admirers with amusement.

"You're definitely not," Isabela said in a low voice. "Deathly boring when not offensive, the lot of them. That one there called me a heartworm!"

Fenris snorted in his ale. "Charming."

Isabela turned her back on her luckless suitors, taking a hearty swig of her ale and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "You look awful, by the way."

Fenris didn't doubt it, but it amused him that Isabela would out and say so. "You're more suited to your suitors than you think, apparently."

"Come off it. Did you sleep at all last night?"

Fenris sighed. He had always prided himself on his ability to remain somewhat incomprehensible and unreadable, but he was finding perhaps that wasn't the truth. Maybe his solitude was the reason for it, and now that he regularly found himself in the company of others it had slipped away, a poor disguise. "No," he said curtly, irritated.

Isabela was silent for a moment. "I didn't either."

"Why not?"

"Probably for the same reason you didn't. I feel like a heel."

It was certainly an apt term. "I'm surprised," he admitted. "I wasn't aware you were capable of guilt."

Isabela turned on him, glaring. "Of course I am. Oh, I wanted it to just be another thing, but then she looked at me with those big disappointed eyes and I wanted to crawl under a rock."

Fenris sighed. Yes, he knew that feeling all too well. Though he didn't normally confide in Isabela - he was largely suspicious of her, in fact- he felt the strange urge to tell her of the physical ball of guilt churning away in his gut, growing larger and larger as time went on. "I see," he said instead.

"You know what I mean?"

Fenris took a large swig of his tasteless ale, measuring his reaction and answer. "I suppose," he said.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a pain?" she asked him, her tawny eyes narrowed in ire.

"You just did."

Isabela chose to ignore this, and Fenris bit back a chuckle. He had baited her on purpose. "I wish she'd come back. I got her something."

A gift! Why hadn't he thought of that? "What is it?"

"Nothing special. A new sharpening stone." Isabela showed him, flipping it through her fingers. It was a nice stone indeed; he could tell instantly that the grain of it was fine enough to sharpen her blades just the way she liked them. It was similarly a shrewd girft, and he felt stupid for not thinking to get her something himself.

"She'll like it," he said neutrally, but Isabela wasn't fooled.

"You wish you'd thought of it," she said, grinning impishly.

"Yes," he admitted, feeling it would be churlish to lie.

"If you want you can take the stone and I'll find something else."

Fenris shook his head. "That wouldn't be right. I can't give her something I didn't even acquire myself."

"Sure you can."

"It would be a lie," Fenris explained somewhat impatiently. "No."

"Suit yourself," Isabela said, flipping the stone back into one of her pockets. "I don't think it'll really make a difference anyway. She was pretty angry."

Fenris remembered Leandra's words. Hawke was unable to hold a grudge according to her, but in the strange light of the Hanged Man the words felt less real. Less true. He shrugged in agreement, feeling dismayed. This wasn't just any grudge; they had betrayed her in the worst possible way, traded her for the charms and promises of a demon.

"Come on, Fenris. Have another drink. Don't look so bereft."

"I'm not bereft," Fenris lied, but he drank his ale without further protest or complaint.

He spent the rest of the evening in the Hanged Man, simultaneously bearing and ignoring his guilt. He and Isabela played a handful of games of Diamondback with Aveline and Donnic, and to his small pleasure, the two guardsmen seemed to be almost unaware of the bar around them, instead locking eyes in timid pleasure. It wasn't a surprise to Fenris; he had known Hawke's gambit would work. They usually did.

Part of him foolishly hoped Hawke would make her way there, grinning and laughing as she was wont to do, but she was conspicuously absent from the goings-on and after a few hours of fruitless waiting, Fenris headed home. It had become tiresome to engage in conversation, and more than anything he sought solitude.

It was a cloudless night, and the stars almost seemed to beckon to him, thousands upon thousands of tiny stitches in a sky made of dark silk, compelling and beautiful. It seemed like ages since he had last seen the heavens, since he had last loosed his thoughts through the eternal expanse.

Despite his efforts, he could not distract himself for long. His thoughts came back to Hawke, to his crime and her pain, and the guilt shifted, increased. He wondered if Isabela's solution had any merit. A gift; would she appreciate the effort to make things right or would she resent his attempt to manipulate her with consideration?

He frowned as he pulled the uncooperative mansion door open. It wasn't as if he could find anything for her now anyway; it was night and all the shops had been closed for hours. Tomorrow, maybe. Though, what would he even get her? His stomach turned uncomfortably; he'd never gotten anyone a gift, and the thought of it now was vaguely terrifying.

No, it was foolish. An apology was best in this situation; he didn't want her to think he was trying to manipulate her, because he wasn't! He was genuinely sorry for what he'd done, and he was dead set on never allowing it to happen again. The mere thought of her furious and heartbroken expression was more than enough to deter him from thoughts of betrayal, though he had no intention of entering the Fade to test his resolve.

He sank into the moth-eaten chair facing the fireplace. He hadn't the energy to start a real fire, and he sat in the total darkness for a long time, his thoughts tumbling over another. It would be foolish to buy her something . . . but perhaps he could make her something? He almost smiled at the idea; there was something earnest about craft and effort, something more sincere.

What could he make, though? He had no skills aside from his prowess in combat. If he had done anything aside from fighting in his life before the lyrium markings, the knowledge was lost to him.

Defeated before he had really even begun, he trudged over to the pile of books and vellum. He idly twirled the secondhand quill Hawke had given him between his fingers, tracing the blank page with his other hand. He had bought vellum scraps from one of the tranquil in the Gallows, since he couldn't justify the price of the good vellum due to his poor writing. It had become calming though, to scribble whatever came to him. It was usually illegible and broken but he always felt a small sense of pride looking down at his words when he finished.

It came to him as organically as if he'd always known what to do. He set his quill against the paper and wrote for Hawke. Of course! It was stupidly obvious now that it had occurred to him; it was literally the only other skill he had besides sword fighting, and a duel didn't exactly convey his regret the way a letter could. It was perfect; all his tumbling and fragmenting thoughts could be caught and tamed, ordered neatly on the paper and read in just the manner he intended.

There was a heady sense of power in writing, he found as he scribbled. It was satisfying in a way he'd never known, and he realized belatedly what it was; creation. This was the power he'd seen on Hadriana's face as she wrote page after page of notes, as she studied Danarius's endless library. There was power in creation, and joy. But her pleasure had been partly derived from the power she sought, where Fenris delighted in the act itself.

He thought of Hawke as he wrote, kept her close as a beacon, a talisman. He thought of her chip-toothed grin and dark hair, the way it curled at the nape of her neck. He thought of her laughter and her smile, her joy and kindness. Her sharp tongue and stubbornness. He thought of his own unworthiness and his regret for having turned his back on her. He lost himself in his thoughts and the quill moved across the page almost of its own accord, as if by his ideas alone.

Fenris was so absorbed in his writing that he didn't hear the mansion door open and close, or the sound of footsteps slowly ascending the stairs to where he wrote. He didn't hear Hawke enter the room and he couldn't feel her watching him, unspeaking. He was totally absorbed, lost in his thoughts and the creation he wrought.

"What are you doing?" Hawke asked finally and Fenris nearly knocked the inkwell over in shock. His heart had lodged itself somewhere in his throat, and he couldn't speak for a moment.

"I-I was writing," he finally managed, cursing himself at how breathless he sounded.

"I see." She paused for a moment, torn between cool disdain and painful curiosity. "Writing to anyone in particular?"

Of course he was; he was writing to her! All for nothing now, though; he wasn't even finished, and here she was, standing before him and expecting the apology she deserved. "I- I was writing to you," he admitted, and to his horror he felt his face warm. "It's not finished, though."

"A goodbye letter?" she asked sharply.

"No. Not unless you want me to leave."

Hawke didn't respond right away. Her eyes were uncomfortably penetrating, as if she'd gained the ability to see through his flesh and blood, to the bones beneath. "I don't," she finally said and Fenris felt such an acute relief wash through him it almost registered as pain.

He pushed his page away and stood to face her, steeling himself for judgment and rebuke. "I'm sorry," he said.

But none came. "I know." She didn't yell or lecture, she didn't curse; she merely accepted his regret with such grace that Fenris felt unsure of how to proceed. She wandered over to the high-backed chair before the fire, settling there with a long exhale. "I understand why you did."

"You do?"

"Yes. I know you want to be free more than anything. I know you want to be free of Danarius. It was cruel for the demon to use that to turn you, but I understand it."

"That was . . . certainly part of it."

She watched him, those astonishing grey eyes piercing. "And the other part?"

"I . . ." Shit, this was hard. If anything, her eyes seemed wider now; needing and expecting, and he felt the words jumble on his tongue. If only he could write everything instead of speak, he lamented. It was easier to organize his thoughts properly on a page than in a conversation. "Danarius is powerful, and I . . . wanted the power to spare you from him."

"I don't understand," Hawke said. "What do you mean?"

"I don't intend to leave Kirkwall now. I don't intend to leave your side. Which means Danarius will come for me here and find you. He's a powerful mage, one of the most powerful in Minrathous, and I- I couldn't stand the thought of you being hurt by him."

There it was; the bald truth. He felt slightly breathless having said it, and he watched her expression shift as she processed his words. "I can take care of myself," she protested weakly, but he was already shaking his head.

"You don't understand. I've seen Danarius boil a man's blood within his veins. I've seen him drown a man using nothing but the air he breathed. I've seen him reduce the best assassins in Thedas to nothing more than a quivering pile of jelly without so much as moving a finger, and I couldn't stand the thought of the same happening to you. So when that demon offered me the power to secure my freedom, that's what I saw; the power to keep that from happening."

Hawke couldn't seem to speak and he felt suddenly bare at his admission. Perhaps he had exposed too much of his thoughts, perhaps she didn't feel the same sense of desperation and fear at the thought of harm befalling him. His thoughts spun out in terrified speculation as he waited for her to respond. But to his surprise she smiled then, and he had missed her smile more than he could have ever described.

"That is very . . . noble. Misguided, but noble," she said, and her smile was tender. "I feel stupid for being so mad at you now."

"Don't. I deserved it."

"Even so; you seem happy enough to punish yourself without my punishing you."

"I wouldn't say I was happy," he said, but he smiled too. Her acceptance and forgiveness had made him feel slightly lightheaded, though he allowed that might also have to do with sleep-deprivation.

"If you say so. Though, I don't think I can let you off the hook just yet. You have to do two things for me."

"Two things?" Fenris asked in mock-outrage, and Hawke's grin twitched.

"Yes. Firstly, you have to read me whatever it was you were writing," she said as she held up one finger.

His heart stuttered in apprehension, but he nodded. "It's not finished," he warned her.

"I don't care. Two," she said, holding up her second finger, "there is some kind of noble party tomorrow night at the de Launcet's. I'd like it if you would accompany me."

Real fear froze his heart and he worked to keep his expression neutral. "Me?" he asked incredulously. He wasn't a noble; he wasn't even human! Aside from being elven, he was covered in terrifying lyrium markings and was sure to be the scandal and gossip of every noble in Hightown.

"Yes, you. You can come as my bodyguard if that makes you feel more comfortable," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. "But I'd rather you came as my escort."

"You realize I'm an elf, correct?" Fenris finally said, incredulous.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Hawke teased.

He shook his head. "The nobles will assume I'm some kind of . . . prostitute," he finally sputtered. "That is if they even allow me entrance at all."

"They will if they know what's good for them," she said, a real hint of steel in her eyes now. "I've had nobles pestering me for weeks, leaving my poor mother letters asking me for the honor of my hand at this stupid feast, and I'm tired of it. I'm not interested in them; I'd rather spend the evening with you. I don't care if they think I'm a loose woman and they think you're some sort of male consort."

"Why?" Fenris asked her, frowning.

"Because I don't care what they think at all."

"Why not just stay home then?"

"Because I can't. I'm expected to attend as the heir of Amell, and as much as I'd rather spend the night getting pissed at the Hanged Man, I cannot." She sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, Varric will be there too."

"Really?"

"Of course. He's a prominent member of the Merchant's Guild. There isn't a noble in Hightown not trying to curry his favor." Hawke said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He sighed. The last thing he'd ever wanted was to go to a stuffy noble function, as it reminded him rather strongly of his days in Danarius' service, but he found himself inexplicably tempted. For some reason, Hawke wanted him - him! - over the stuffy young bachelors of Hightown. He felt himself smile as he thought of it; oh, he knew it'd be scandal beyond anything for an elf to attend one of their functions, but the idea of being beside Hawke for the entire night was intoxicating.

"Very well. I am yours," he said, inclining his head formally.

Hawke smile openly, her eyes bright with excitement and mischief. "Splendid, I say," she said in a stuffy voice, affecting a true noble so well she burst out into delighted laughter almost instantly, clutching her sides as she giggled.

Fenris smiled in return. He had missed this, perhaps even more now that he had it again. They had fought for only a day and yet it had seemed to be an eternity unending, though perhaps that was because he'd been convinced she'd never forgive him. He was thrilled to be wrong. He was thrilled to just be beside her again, her laughter warming him like the sun, her eyes sparkling with light.

"Now," she said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "Let's hear what you wrote."


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Special thanks to my lovely reviewers: Torilund Archer, 404 pants, Kainen-no-Kitsune, socialkombat, darkhanyouqueen, Lioba, Miaod, R2s Muse, Everything In Its Right Place, CreatedInFyre7, Lizski26, Jedi Kacee, paulaH and GJ, and Dreister Dieb, and to everyone else who read, faved, and followed. You guys are all awesome!**

**Due to popular request, I have included Fenris's letter-poem in this chapter. I make NO claims at being a good poet!**

**This chapter was all kinds of fun to write. The next one is going to be even MORE fun; I've already started it and hope to have it finished in a few days!**

**I love getting feedback from you all, so if you have suggestions or comments of any kind, let me hear 'em in a review! Thanks all, and I hope you enjoy!**

Fenris took a steadying breath, straightening the vellum in his hands, desperately trying to keep them from trembling. Chancing a covert glance over the top of the page, he watched Hawke stare back at him, her expression utterly rapt. With almost childlike exuberance, she pulled her legs under herself and settled in the chair, her grin wider than he'd seen in years.

"I feel like a kid on Satinalia eve," she said, giggling.

He tried not to show her how charmed he was by her reaction. "It's not even finished," he warned her. "I don't know why you're so excited."

"No one's ever written me something before!" she said, bouncing breathlessly.

"I'm afraid you might be disappointed."

"I promise I won't; I'm too excited."

Fenris couldn't bite back the smile fast enough. She was utterly ridiculous, he thought. Ridiculous and charming and he was completely disarmed. He feared he would do anything she asked, no matter how embarrassing. He'd do anything if she only asked it of him.

"I don't mind if you laugh," he said, "but please don't tell the others about this."

Hawke straightened in her seat, pressing her lips into a solid line. "Not a word," she promised devoutly, as if taking the most solemn of oaths.

A rush of heat flooded his cheeks, and he looked away, swallowing. Curse her. If he wasn't careful, he'd find himself baring every one of his secrets to her, even the ones he knew nothing about. He cleared his throat and strained to read his words in the low light.

"_I had enjoyed my solitude,_

_For in it came a kind of inspiration_

_I looked forward to my lonely walk _

_on the edge of a blade_

_Instead now I am in bright, awake country,_

_Your eyes drown any protest_

_Your smile resembles the sun, and_

_For the first time since I can remember_

_I can breathe, though it's not unfamiliar_

_It is as if you've always been here_

_teaching and showing, hands_

_moving to the shape of your words_

_shaping me around you_

_I hadn't known laughter until I first heard yours_

_You are a joy, a bright teacher_

_You are too good for this world_

_and I wonder if I know this for a reason_

_Perhaps you are above this world_

_and if such is true,_

_it is remarkable you notice me at all."_

Fenris lapsed into silence; he had scribbled much more on his shoddy piece of vellum, but nothing else was suitable or polished, or even legible. The silence was uncomfortably loud and Fenris could not meet Hawke's eyes, suddenly terrified. His words were too personal in this format, dredged from some primordial part of him that was best kept from the light of day.

He chanced a glance up at Hawke, and to his shock her eyes were bright; her lip trembled. "You wrote me a poem."

"I- suppose?" he said. He felt beyond stupid, wishing fervently that he could dash the flimsy paper under his heel. In fact, it would be better if he never wrote another word for the rest of his life.

Hawke's breath hitched. "Don't you know that was _sad?" _

He blanched. At that moment he wished he hadn't said anything, no matter how much she begged. He strode to the fire to toss the paper inside but she leapt to her feet and held his wrist. He tried desperately to ignore the sudden rush her touch gave him, and how deeply her proximity resonated. "No! Not bad. _Sad," _she emphasized. "It was beautiful!"

"I- thank you," he stammered, and he carefully disentangled himself from her touch. "It isn't finished."

She didn't seem to hear his protests. "I had no idea you thought so poorly of yourself. That's what I meant about it being sad."

The thought hadn't even occurred to him. Now that she mentioned it, of course, he realized it was true; he thought of himself as ultimately undeserving of whatever attention she bestowed on him. He didn't reply, feeling unbearably foolish.

"Why is that?" Hawke prompted.

Fenris shrugged and struggled for the proper words. "It's the truth. I don't know," he trailed off. There was something piercing about her stare that made the room seem airless, that made his limbs seem cumbersome and strange. He was bare under her gaze.

She grinned though her eyes continued to scour him. "Your embarrassment is endearing, you know," she said.

"I suppose I should be thankful, then."

"You should," she agreed, plopping back into her chair. "What made you think to write me something?"

Fenris took his seat opposite her, and he pushed his hair out of his eyes impatiently. "I had drinks with Isabela earlier. She figured a gift would be a good thing to say 'I'm sorry' with."

"Not necessary, but a nice thought."

"I thought it would be nicer to make something instead of buy something, but I really don't have any skills beyond sword fighting."

"But you do," Hawke argued, grinning. "Now you're a poet."

A poet; the word conjured up an image of a skinny man in a ruff and tights, with knobby knees and no chin. Fenris grimaced.

"Alright, so not a poet," Hawke said, laughing at Fenris' reaction. "How about . . . a wordsmith."

"Somewhat better," he allowed. "I'd hardly give myself a title yet, considering my lack of skill."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Anyone ever tell you you're too hard on yourself?"

"You do constantly."

"As well I should. Someone needs to remind you to give yourself a break now and then," Hawke said with great dignity.

"I'm lucky to have such an ardent champion, then," Fenris said, and he allowed himself a small smile.

"I like that." Hawke puffed up her chest importantly. "I'm your champion."

Tenderness toward her nearly overcame him. He liked that idea as well.

"So, I'm still trying to understand; what attracted to you to writing?" Hawke asked with great interest.

He shrugged. "It's easier," he explained. "Easier to organize my thoughts on paper." He allowed a fond smile. "I was trying to figure out what I'd say to you in apology, but it kept falling apart. I was tired, so that might have had something to do with it. But it was easier to put it all down on paper and organize that way."

"Yes, that makes sense," Hawke mused. She glanced at the crumpled up ball of vellum in Fenris's fist with an expression that managed to be coy and earnest at the same time. "May I have that?"

His shameful first instinct was to deny her. It was one thing to speak the words but to give them to her in such a permanent way was terrifying. It was allowing himself to be bare before her in a more enduring manner. But her sweet expression moved him; she wasn't trying to mock or ridicule him. She enjoyed what he'd written and wanted to keep it close, and the realization warmed him. He nodded and handed over the vellum, and she cradled it in her hands as if it were a precious thing.

"Your penmanship has improved," she noted.

"I've been practicing," Fenris said by way of an explanation.

"Yes, I see that." She held the paper closer to her face, inspecting. "You know, someone once told me we can learn much from a person based on their handwriting," she said. Her finger traced his words with lavish care and it struck him as shockingly intimate.

"Who said this?" he wondered.

"One of our neighbors in Lothering. Madame Reina. She was a strange old thing, lived in Rivain for most of her life and came south because of some bad business. Never talked about it, of course, and it became a sort of game to speculate what had really happened. She was a patient lady, though; she didn't seem to care that we all tried to snoop in her life."

And as she spoke, Fenris could almost see the woman as if she stood before them now.

"We would sneak to her place to hear her stories and have our palms read and futures told in the tea leaves. She told Carver he would fight a glorious and terrible battle, but he would die far from the battlefield. She told Bethany that there was a great darkness in her future, but also a brotherhood of strength."

Fenris listened raptly, struck by the accuracy of this woman's predictions. "What did she tell you?"

Hawke's lips turned ruefully. "She told me men and women would die on my word. That I would walk the balance point between a war and my choices would shape its course. She told me my destiny was great and terrifying, and she would say no more. She kicked us all out after that, and everyone was angry at me."

Fenris watched her, measuring her words. In some unconscious part of himself, he had known she would be important; he just hadn't known on what scale. He knew now for certain that she was important to him, and it was surprising in a foolishly selfish way to hear she'd become important to others. He hesitated to call it destiny, as the idea of destiny upset him.

"Anyways, I brought it up because she taught me a bit of her ways. She was weirdly pragmatic; I think you would have liked her. People called her a fortune teller, but she would just say that she knew how to look for things, and that's all it was."

"She does sound interesting," Fenris allowed.

"Anyways, she taught me how to see a person in their handwriting. The way you shape your letters and words tells more about you than your words themselves."

"An intriguing notion," Fenris allowed. "But it's hardly fair. We've known one another for years, and you could base your analysis on that."

"Am I to believe I know everything about you? Am I to believe you know everything about me?" Hawke said pointedly.

He made to retort, but reconsidered. Of course he didn't know everything, and neither did she. Their relationship was a slow one, a careful dance of trust. He nodded his head in acquiescence. "Very well. What does my handwriting say about me?"

Hawke buried her face back into the page, inspecting carefully. "You're guarded, but that's obvious to anyone who knows you. You're surprisingly self-conscious; it's here in the size of your letters. They're tiny and all cramped together. You're ill at ease with your thoughts and words, and you feel as if perhaps they'll betray you."

Fenris looked at her in growing alarm. That was definitely true, and not something she could have guessed simply by conversation. "And?"

"You have a temper. A lot of passion. You make your letters in sharp lines, but coupled with the fact that they're tiny and cramped means you keep it pushed down. You censor yourself."

This was also true; Fenris was careful to keep himself controlled in the presence of others; in fact, he kept himself controlled nearly always. He knew of what she spoke of; that odd, simmering below the surface, boiling, waiting to escape. He thought of the way he restrained his impulses around her, choked by fear.

"Ah! I was right." She jabbed her finger triumphantly on the page. "You have a good side. A tender side. You can tell by the way you orient your writing on the page."

Fenris cleared his throat awkwardly. "That's . . . impressive." He reconsidered letting Hawke keep the page, but he figured there was little for it now; she'd already gleaned what she needed.

Hawke grinned, folding the vellum and putting it in her pocket. "I'll leave you alone. For now."

"Thank you," he said. He tried to ignore the increasingly insistent part of him that didn't want her to leave him alone, the part that relished in her attention.

They lapsed into an easy silence and Fenris felt a wave of exhaustion batter at his senses. He belatedly realized he'd be awake for nearly two days straight, and his body was starting to fail. It hadn't been a slow feeling, but one that nearly knocked him flat out of his seat. He swayed in place.

"Tired?" Hawke asked. "Me too. I've been awake for . . . almost two days."

"Me as well," Fenris said, rubbing at his eyes.

"I think I should let you get some sleep," she said, carefully rising for her seat and straightening her jerkin.

Fenris stood too, so quickly that he wobbled a bit. "I can walk you home," he offered.

"That's okay," she said. "It's not far. And you look dead on your feet."

It was an apt description. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Her smile was unbearably coy and shot straight through him; his tongue suddenly felt too large for his mouth and his hands itched, aching to touch her. "Yes. We can head over from my place, if you like."

Fenris nodded, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of loss. It was like this every night when they parted; this feeling of emptiness would overtake him, and he would miss her, her bright smiles, her eyes.

"Good night, Fenris," she said softly, yet before she turned to leave she paused for half a second. He watched the conflict on her face, the careful weight of either decision, and he knew what she wanted. He wanted it himself, so badly it was a physical ache. He couldn't look away from her lips; fear and desire mingling painfully. But before he could move to her, she turned quickly on her heel, vanishing into the shadows and through the front door.

It was only after she left he was aware of exhaling.

* * *

Partly through force of habit and partly because he felt lost and ridiculous, Fenris made his way to the Hanged Man the next afternoon. He'd slept amazingly well, and he'd felt refreshed, light on his feet. The world was in sharper relief today; the sounds louder and the colors brighter. He wondered if it had to do with his rested state or his chaotic mood.

He needed to see Varric; a grudging admission he made to himself as he moved through the dirty alleys of Lowtown. After the glow of the night before had faded, fear had quickly taken its place; he'd never been to a noble feast as a real guest. Any such function he had attended in the past had been as a slave and bodyguard, as an object instead of a person. He was at a loss; he had no idea how to dress, how to behave, how to . . . exist in a way that wouldn't embarrass or offend Hawke and the people she was somehow beholden to.

Hawke had mentioned Varric would be there, and as the prominent merchant/liaison/dwarf-of-interest in Hightown, Fenris figured he'd know what to do. This was old hat for Varric; the charming dwarf was no stranger to high society and their peculiar customs. So much like a dog returns home with its tail between its legs, Fenris trudged up to Varric's suite, preparing himself for a long and awkward day.

"Come in!" Varric yelled through the door, and Fenris stepped over the threshold. The suite was much the same as it was three years ago, and Varric himself looked practically unchanged, the same half grin, the same sharp and clever eyes.

"I'm in need of your help," Fenris said stiffly.

"I see that. Hawke told me you're coming along to de Launcet's little shindig."

"That's right." Fenris fidgeted awkwardly. "It's obvious that I've never attended anything like this as a guest, and I was hoping you'd . . . point me in the right direction."

"It's going to take more than that, elf." Varric sighed. "The things I do for that girl."

Fenris found he could commiserate with that sentiment.

"Well, first of all, is that what you're planning to wear?" Varric nodded toward Fenris' armor.

"It's the only thing I have," Fenris said unwillingly. That wasn't strictly true, but he doubted the tattered linens and moth-eaten finery he'd found in the basement of the mansion would have been appropriate.

Varric circled Fenris, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Had you considered wearing something that didn't say 'I'm an escaped slave, I hate you all'?"

"If you're making a comment on my markings, it matters little what I wear; they show through anyway," Fenris said with the long suffering patience of a martyr.

"That's . . . actually kind of cool."

"If you say so."

"Well, it's a good thing Hawke told me what her plans were because otherwise I doubt I would have been able to find you anything," Varric said, ambling over to his drawers and rifling through them with an irritated fervor. "She had something made for you; paid for it and everything."

"She did?" Fenris asked, guilt stirring within him once again. He had spent the day being miserable, and she had already decided to forgive him, to include him in her life. He hung his head.

"Cool it with the self-flagellation, elf," Varric said, rolling his eyes at Fenris' expression. "She's wanted to do this for years."

"Huh." It simultaneously warmed and thrilled him to know she'd been thinking of this for so long. His stomach twisted oddly at the thought.

"Alright, elf. Try this on." Varric shoved a bundle of fine cloth into his arms. They stared at one another for half a moment; Fenris raised his brow as the dwarf stared baldly back. Finally, he sighed in defeat. "Fine, fine. I'll leave you alone."

Watching the dwarf stump out of the room with a deliberate air of petulance, Fenris closed the door. The bundle in his arms was cool and light and he wondered if he'd ever held something as fine in his hands before. Perhaps when aiding Danarius dress for some function or other, but it had never been _his. _He was struck by the kindness of the gesture, one of many. _All that you give me, I will learn to give in return_, he promised silently to her. It had become a constant incantation, a fervent prayer.

With practiced hands, he undid the belts and buckles of his armor and slipped out of it quickly, bare as a daystar. He was generally uncomfortable with nakedness, as he associated it with weakness, with hurt. To be clothed was to be armored, and he endeavored to be armored as much as possible. He settled the fine trousers carefully over his hips and pulled the fancy shirt over his head, arranging the brocade tunic over it.

As if sensing he had dressed, Varric opened the door and strode through the threshold again, eyeing Fenris appraisingly. "Either she's seen you naked or she's a psychic," he said through incredulous laughter.

"What?"

"She nailed your measurements; it doesn't have to be adjusted at all," Varric explained.

It was true; the finery fit him perfectly. As if she had known his general discomfort with anything aside from his own armor, it had been tailored to somewhat resemble it. The line of the dark trouser was slim, favoring the natural line of his hip and leg instead of the puffed style so popular with the nobles of Kirkwall. Aside from the stiff collar of the shirt, it was light and flexible, hardly protesting as he moved this way and that. But the tunic was the crowning finish; it was made of a dark grey cloth and hand stitched with fine silver thread to resemble the pattern of his own tattoos, curling and twisting gently in graceful loops and arcs.

It was then Fenris realized the extent of her care, her unfathomable affection for him. Instead of attempting to cover up what he was, she had celebrated it, emphasized it.

"Looks sharp," Varric said, grinning. "She's got good taste."

It was true, but such an unforgivable understatement that it almost felt like an untruth. Fenris pulled the belt tight across his waist, frowning. It was too much. The joyful ease in which she gave was disconcerting, terrifying. The slave in him wondered when the hammer would fall, when the charade would be over. "Why is she doing this?" he wondered aloud, beseeching to Varric.

The dwarf frowned thoughtfully. "She cares for you; that much is obvious. Also, I think your situation bothers her."

"My situation?"

"You're an elf, a former slave. You're not of the Alienage and you're not Dalish. It bothers her that you don't have a place."

He had never considered that would bother her. At first, he hadn't wanted a place. He stayed in the broken down mansion because he expected to flee at the first sign of trouble. But as the years had passed, he had reconsidered. He had grown close to Hawke, and the idea of leaving her had become a painful one. So he had stayed, but always with a foot half in the door. Always partly ready to escape.

Besides, what place was there for him here? It was just as Varric said; he wasn't Dalish and he wasn't of the Alienage. Actually, most of the elves annoyed him; either content to live in a hovel at the unspoken preference of the humans, or vocally set apart, clinging to what was left of the old ways.

But he thought of Hawke's joy, her kindness. Her stubbornness and quick temper, her sharp tongue. He thought of all she gave him without thought for herself, and he decided. If he was to have a place, it would be beside Hawke.

But he didn't say this. He cleared his throat awkwardly at the tender sentiment and arranged the tunic so it lay straight. It felt odd to be wearing something so fine, something made specifically for him. "I see," he said at length.

Varric regarded him with an odd expression- one that almost seemed to scour- and for a moment Fenris suspected that the dwarf did not trust him. "You've been to these snotty noble things before, haven't you?" he asked.

Fenris nodded. "In Tevinter. I imagine some of the customs are different here."

"I could bore you with the details, but it's really not as complicated as you think. Eat less than you want, and slower than you want to. Don't talk to someone unless they approach you, and then only talk about them. If they ask about you, answer their questions so that they sound more interesting than you. And most importantly," Varric said with serious intensity, "don't offer any opinions. At all. They are guaranteed to offend some one."

"That sounds complicated to me," Fenris said with ire.

"Is it? I must have been doing this for a long time, then," Varric allowed with a grin. "Nobles are easy. They're sheep. They do the same things and think the same thoughts. It's all about politics, propriety, power. And sex," Varric said with a suggestive wiggle of his brows. "Can't forget the sex."

Fenris strapped on the boots Varric had laid out for him with a decisive movement, ignoring the vague discomfort. "They don't sound that different from regular people," he observed wryly.

"Fenris! There's a bit of philosopher underneath all that moping," Varric said delightedly. "You, my friend, have layers."

"Thank you?"

Varric clapped Fenris on the shoulder. "This won't be so bad. You get to see Hawke in a dress. She cleans up pretty sharp too," Varric said suggestively.

And though beginnings of nervousness had begun to curl up in his stomach like an agitated beast, he couldn't help the exhilaration that came fast on its heels. The extremes pulled at him, warring viciously.

Varric chuckled at his expression. "Come on. It's about that time."

* * *

It was nearing dusk as they made their way through the streets of Hightown. The sky was painted scarlet, in a gorgeous range from pale rose to deep wine. Fenris hadn't seen a sunset this vibrant in quite some time, and it almost seemed as if the sky itself marked this night as special in solidarity.

He swallowed with some difficulty. His heart beat somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, and he hardly heard Varric as he chatted amiably at his side. He had been foolish to agree to this. He knew nothing of propriety and manners. He was an elf- an escaped slave no less- covered head to toe with lyrium that could burn like the sun at a second's notice. He was a freak, an oddity. He would not be welcome in Hawke's world. What had he been thinking?

"I'll see you there, elf," Varric said, ambling off in the direction of the de Launcet's estate. "Don't be too long."

Fenris waved half-heartedly, unable to speak. He felt his heart pound furiously in his chest and he felt short of breath, weak. He reminded himself that he didn't care what these weak humans thought of him. He remembered who and what he was; Fenris, swordsman and amateur word-smith. He reminded himself of Hawke and her expectation, her earnestness. But it was to no avail.

He knocked on the door of the Amell estate cautiously, struggling with the growing impulse to run away. He still could, he figured. He could sprint back to the ruin of a mansion he lived in and forget he had ever tried to do something as stupid as this. But the door swung open grandly and the opportunity passed.

"Good evening, Master Fenris," Bodhan said pleasant. "Do come inside while you wait."

Fenris stepped over the threshold, nearly tripping on the door jam. Aside from the fact that he was unaccustomed to wearing shoes, his discomfiture had made him clumsy. He took special care in placing his feet exactly as he walked, for the last thing he wanted was to trip and make an even bigger fool of himself.

The hall was empty save for Sandal, the savant dwarf Bodhan cared for. He was tinkering in the corner with what looked like runes, babbling happily to himself. A cheerful fire roared and it bathed the room in a rosy glow. He marveled that despite their similarities in construction, the Amell mansion actually felt like a home.

"Mistress Hawke will be along shortly," Bodhan said promptly before disappearing into the study, leaving Fenris alone with his almost palpable apprehension.

Fenris waited, fidgeting in his new finery. The stiff collar had begun to feel disconcertingly like a noose around his neck, and he pulled at it desperately. He vaguely wondered where Leandra was. He wondered what was taking Hawke so long. He wondered if he could still sneak away unnoticed.

It was almost by accident that he noticed her. His gaze was drawn to the loft where she stood, waiting, watching him silently. He didn't recognize her at first, but their eyes met in that single eternal second, and he forgot how to breathe.

He'd known Hawke for many years and always marveled at her vociferous beauty, her free and lovely features. He had seen her exclusively in leathers, coiled and tensile, ready to spring into action at a second's notice. But he realized now how little of her he'd truly seen, how much he saw now. She wore a dress in vibrant red that followed every single line and curve, accentuating her trim waist and generous hips, her full breasts. Her dark hair curled around her face in soft waves. Even her skin seemed to glow, lush and pale as a petal.

He'd always known she was beautiful; it was now he realized how completely she downplayed her beauty. Now that the full force of it was unleashed, he wondered dimly if he'd ever be able to see her the way she was again. Part of him wanted to; the Hawke he knew was beautiful in a wild way; but this Hawke was dangerously beautiful. Stirrings of desperate want and desire assaulted him, and he swallowed with difficulty.

They didn't speak for a moment, and he realized belatedly that she was looking at him in the same way he looked at her. He'd never really considered himself attractive. As Danarius's slave, his appearance had served solely to intimidate instead of entice. He was good at it; a second of concentration and he could set the lyrium in his skin aflame. He'd become a fearsome creature in the span of a second. But Hawke wasn't put off; he saw her eyes trail over the curling tendrils of his tattoos, over the lines of his body with obvious want and appreciation. To his growing surprise, he realized he enjoyed it.

"You look lovely," he said in a husky voice that was hardly his own.

Hawke's answering smile was shy, and he marveled; he'd never seen her so tentative. It was charming. "Do you like it?" she asked, nodding toward his clothes.

"Yes," he answered honestly. "I've never worn anything so fine."

"That's a shame," she said softly.

"It was very kind, considering . . ." he trailed off, unsure of how to proceed. "Thank you."

"Oh, it was no trouble. Not really for me anyway. The tailor spent a good deal of time working on that tunic, though." She smiled her impish smile. "I was very specific."

They fell into silence again, though very different from the thoughtful quiet they shared in a conversation. This silence was the silence of fear and desire, and Fenris found he could not break it. A dozen half formed thoughts chased their way across his mind. _You are exquisite. I can hardly breathe. It is painful to not hold you. I need you. _He gritted his teeth in a determined line, keeping the traitorous thoughts at bay, though not without difficultly.

Finally, thankfully, Hawke spoke again. "Shall we?" she said, inclining her head to the doorway.

Fenris nodded in relief, and together they set out, stepping through the door and into the twilight beyond. And as if he had always known to do so through some unknown instinct, he held his arm out to her and she took it, her touch light as a sigh.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Special thanks to my reviewers: Crystal Night, Serenity's Melody, darkhanyouqueen, 404 pants, Biased Raincloud, Kainen-no-Kitsune, Everything In Its Right Place, SarawrHXC, Lizski26, Allie, paulaH and GJ, Jedi Kacee, Lorrain, Dreister Dieb, herlindakitty, CreatedInFyre7, Lioba, and Torilund Archer, and to everyone who read, faved, and followed this time around! Cookies for you all!**

**Quick note- I am going to be out of country for the next week starting tomorrow. I will do my best to keep updates coming, but they might take a little longer than usual.**

**Holy crap this chapter. Things kind of veered away from canon a BIT, but I think it's not outside of the realm of believability. In any case, I am DYING to hear what you all think so if you enjoyed it or have some suggestions please leave me a review and tell me all about it! Thanks everyone, and enjoy!**

Fenris took a deep breath and willed himself to be calm. But try as he might to be steady, he could not shake the feel of walking into a dream. He would wake any moment now, tangled up in his blankets on the hard stone floor of the mansion, or perhaps at the desk after falling asleep reading. This was more fantasy than any reality he'd ever know, and the pragmatist that he was he questioned it.

But as he strode through Hightown with Hawke on his arm, he realized none of this had the strange haze of a dream. The world didn't shift and dance under his feet, and the colors didn't run and bleed together. He was aware of breathing and the frantic beat of his heart. He was almost preternaturally aware of the clumsiness of his limbs and feet- a wholly unnatural sensation. Indeed, a part of him longed for his armor and sword and the easy habit of combat.

But another part of him thrilled at this. Through the fear and apprehension, he marveled at the turn he and Hawke had taken. For years they had danced around one another, wanting but . . . waiting. For something. For him, probably. For him to come to terms with attraction, care, trust.

"You nervous?" Hawke asked him.

"No."

"You're shaking," she pointed out, arching a brow.

"It's cold," he lied. It was spring, and though the night was cool it wasn't uncomfortably so. He chastised himself for his foolishness. It was just a dinner. These nobles were nothing to him; there would be no magister or mage lying in wait, plotting their next depravity and betrayal. It was only a dinner, and he was in the company of the most fascinating woman he'd ever known.

She grinned. "So we should come up with our story."

"Our what?" Fenris asked, taken off guard by the bald question.

"You know. What we tell the nobles when they ask us about ourselves. Do you want to tell them the truth? Or make up something fun?"

Fenris frowned. He was not strictly comfortable with such a lie; though these humans were foolish and typical, they were also powerful and could make life difficult for him should he be caught in a lie. On the other hand, he wasn't comfortable with the truth either.

"What would you suggest?" he asked.

Hawke lapsed into thought. "Well, whatever it is, it can't be something regular. You'll forgive me for saying so, but your tattoos are very exotic. No one would believe a regular story."

"Perhaps we need only embellish the truth a bit," Fenris suggested. "They'll likely assume the truth is an exaggeration anyway."

Hawke nodded, a clever grin curling her lips. "I see what you're saying." She paused, analyzing him closely. "You don't remember how you got the markings, do you?"

"I remember only the pain."

"Not exactly good dinner conversation, then. Hmm. . . ." she said and she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Let's . . . embellish a bit. Let's say . . . you competed for them in a grand melee, or something. You proved yourself the victor and were rewarded with the lyrium markings."

Fenris frowned at the story. "I can't imagine a scenario where I wanted these. Or a scenario where I thought them to be a reward and not a punishment," he said bitterly.

Hawke's expression had become solemn and she touched his arm lightly, a small gesture of comfort. "I know, Fenris. The truth is just for you, though. They don't need to know about it."

He opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. Hawke was right. The nobles didn't need to know of the excruciating pain, his hair falling out in clumps, the inability to taste anything, the way his very bones had burned for weeks. A showy story about some competition would sate their curiosity well enough.

"All right," he said at length. "I'll leave the storytelling to you."

She looked at him in concern. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. I have no patience or skill for dramatic embellishment. You, however, excel at it." And he smiled a small smile for her benefit.

"Right," she said, grinning coyly. "What's our story going to be? The nobles know about me; they'll be much more interested in knowing who you are in relation to me."

That was the question, wasn't it? Fenris felt his heart begin to pound anew. "What would you prefer?"

"I think bodyguard would have the least implication, and considering your appearance they'd believe it. But," she said, grin widening, "maybe I want there to be implications."

"Do you?" Fenris asked, his pulse thudding in his ears.

She didn't respond immediately, tapping a finger on her chin. "Escort . . . consort . . . eugh. Those all sound like something an employee of the Blooming Rose would call themselves."

Fenris found he agreed with that sentiment. "And what's wrong with that?" he asked, testing her.

Hawke looked at him, her brows furrowed seriously. "Everything. You're better than that."

"I'm relieved you think so."

"Partner in crime?"

"Are we criminals now?"

"Some would think so!" She paced for a bit before spinning to face him, her grin back in full force. "You're my . . . companion. It's wickedly vague, isn't it?"

It was indeed. Fenris found he enjoyed the thought of the nobles falling all over themselves, guessing what 'companion' could possibly entail. He allowed himself a small smile, charmed by her craftiness. "Perfectly vague."

She winked and took his arm. "Shall we be off . . . companion?" she asked, mischief alight in her voice.

It wasn't far to the de Launcet's; in fact, Fenris realized they were only a few mansions away from his own dilapidated hovel. As they approached the elaborately carved door of the de Launcet mansion, he felt his nervousness inexplicably wane. He wouldn't say he felt calm - far from it- but his adrenaline seemed to throw the world into a strange kind of focus. He was acutely aware of everything around him; Hawke's hand on his arm, the strange feel of the boots he wore, the doleful calling of an owl far from here.

Hawke raised her fist to knock smartly on the door but she paused first, her suddenly intense stare seeming to lance straight through him. The grin had since left her face, replaced by a desire he felt just as plainly. Something in him reversed, and he realized where once the fear he'd always known had the upper hand in his thoughts, it was no longer. Though not completely absent, it had diminished greatly, leaving him reeling and bare, slightly punch-drunk.

She must have knocked because in the next moment a man answer the door, standing with an impossibly ramrod straight posture, his black hair oiled and combed to exacting perfection. "Lady Hawke," he said primly before turning to Fenris and narrowing his eyes. "And you are . . .?"

Hawke cut in smoothly. "This is Fenris, my trusted companion. Thank you," she said pointedly, leaving no room for argument.

With a decorous little sniff, the butler stepped aside and he and Hawke crossed over the threshold. To his surprise, he found himself marveling at the mansion. Where the Amell estate was warm and homey, this place was impossibly showy, pristine. He felt oddly as if he had stepped into a painting, for while everything was placed artfully and carefully, it felt strangely as if no one truly lived there. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Come this way," the butler said, his eyes narrowing. "The feast is nearly begun."

He led them through the pristine halls of the mansion, and Fenris felt his unease increase. It was as if every immaculate portrait, every perfectly groomed tapestry bore down on him, bringing the fact that he didn't belong into even sharper relief. Somehow, as if she sensed his thoughts, Hawke squeezed his arm gently - a gesture of comfort and solidarity- and he relaxed.

The butler brought them to a vast dining hall; every wall was covered with visceral and frightening paintings of conquest and battle, complete with a boar's head mounted just over the head of the room. A fierce fire churned in the fireplace, throwing the room into a warmly flickering relief. In the corner a small troupe of musicians tuned their instruments, head bowed to hear over the boisterous conversation.

The butler did not announce them, but every head in the room turned to stare at them anyway. Fenris knew little of noble propriety, but in his mind the baldness of their stares struck him as invasive and rude. He half expected their conversation to cease completely s they took in his angled ears, dusky skin, and the lyrium tattoos that marred every inch of him.

Beside him, Hawke clicked her tongue in annoyance and he knew the nobles' rudeness had piqued her temper. This time it was he that offered comfort to her; he touched her arm lightly, a wordless request. And though no words were spoken between them, she nodded in understanding. These people were not worth it, and their inconsiderate gawping meant little in the long run.

They took a careful seat at one of the smaller long-tables, and conversation resumed. At that moment, the musicians struck up a pensive tune, their long fingers coaxing melodies and harmonies as light as air. A horde of servants burst from the kitchens, bearing enormous trays of food and setting them carefully down before doling generous portions onto each plate. The nobles continued their conversations as if they did not exist.

"Lovely to see you, Lady Hawke," a snub nosed woman said in an oily tone.

"Likewise, Lady Therese," Hawke said, nothing if not polite.

"I don't believe I've met your escort." Her narrowed eyes changed the comment into an accusation.

As the servants filled her plate, Hawke flashed them all that quicksilver grin he loved. "You've not heard of Fenris?" she asked, politely incredulous tone, as if the Lady had committed some grave oversight with her ignorance. "He is a swordsman of great renown and my most trusted companion."

While Lady Therese sputtered, he bit his lip to keep from smirking. 'Most trusted companion' indeed. The thought was a heady thing, and as he caught Hawke's eyes, she winked.

"I meant no offense," Lady Therese said quickly. "There is so much about you that is kept deliberately vague."

"Yes, well," Hawke said. "That's for the best, considering my work."

"Just what is your work, Lady Hawke?" another noble asked, the words barbed with derision. "You hear such interesting things of your exploits; one can't help but to wonder if they're true."

"Surely I can't be held accountable for the untruths insufferable gossips like to spread, Lady Carla?" Hawke asked, sweetly.

Fenris nearly choked on the piece of roast pork he had been chewing; the Lady Carla's expression was so comically wrought, he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing aloud. "Of course not," she said acidly. "I imagine you'd be able to confirm or deny them, though."

"I suppose," Hawke allowed, taking a very unladylike bite of the roast. "I find the rumors to be more interesting." Spotting him across the room, she shot Varric a pointed look as he grinned roguishly back. There certainly was no mystery there; Varric loved telling wild tales featuring Hawke, each more unlikely than the last. Half the city was convinced she'd arm-wrestled a horde of darkspawn just the other week.

"Quite," Lady Carla said, her voice icy. "One hears you've branched into mercenary work."

"Heavens!" Hawke exclaimed, scandalized. "What a vicious rumor. I much prefer the word 'adventurer'."

"I'm afraid I don't know the difference," said Lady Therese.

"Allow me to enlighten you," Hawke said, and her grin took a feral edge. "Adventurers don't do it for the money."

Lady Therese fell into scandalized silence, but Lady Carla looked amused, as if she had expected a cheeky answer and was pleased that Hawke could fulfill the expectation. "I do believe I've heard that,' she said dryly.

Thankfully, the ladies decided to engage their other neighbors in insipid conversation, leaving Hawke to devour the contents of her plate wolfishly.

"You bait them on purpose," Fenris accused in a low voice.

"Come on," she retorted. "They practically beg for it."

He didn't argue that point. "You have no impulse control."

"I never said I did, did I?" Hawke scoffed. "Impulse control. What a bore!"

"One could never accuse you of being boring."

"Thank the Maker."

Quietly as wraiths, the servants weaved around the conversing nobles and whisked away their dirty plates and empty platters. Fenris thanked the small girl who removed his plate, and she looked at him with wide and confused eyes. It was only after he'd spoken that he realized no noble would deign to thank a servant for doing their duty; the thought piqued his temper.

"Are they slaves?" he asked Hawke in a low voice as he watched the little elven girl stumble and drop a plate.

She shook her head. "They're paid, or at least they should be paid. Slavery isn't legal this far south. I'm sure that doesn't stop some from trying to get away with it, though."

He didn't say anything, feeling the burn of anger crowd his vision. The nobles here may not be magisters but they were hardly any better; they still subjugated the weak for the sake of their own power and comfort, and the thought was repugnant to him. Why was such a thing allowed to exist?

Hawke touched his arm again, and he felt her touch surge through him, as if he were a conduit specifically tuned to her. "I know," she said softly. "It's repulsive."

Repulsive; that was the exact sentiment. Their ways repulsed him. For all his vague annoyance at the others of his race, he could not abide by their subjugators. He felt the lyrium burn in his skin, aching to phase. "It's more than that," he whispered bitterly.

"Do you want to leave?" she asked, cutting straight to the issue as always.

Did he? Fenris wasn't sure. On the one hand, it would be a relief to be out in the open again, without feeling the undue scrutiny of these spoiled and selfish humans. On the other hand, he guessed such an exit would make things difficult for Hawke. "I don't know."

Hawke thought for a moment. "We could leave, or . . . " her lips spread into a slow grin, "we could make some trouble."

And though he knew he should refuse, he dearly wanted to loose Hawke on these foolish people. He wanted them to bear the brunt of her sharp tongue and mischievous ways; he wanted them to feel foolish under their combined scrutiny. "We'll do it your way," he said.

"Excellent."

"Just what are you whispering about over there?" Lady Therese said, and Fenris didn't know if she was attempting to rebuke them or make conversation.

"Haven't you ever been taught that eavesdropping is rude?" Hawke shot back, grinning wickedly.

The second course was served at that moment; a sumptuous platter of roast boar, surrounded by parsley stuffed chickens. And though he knew it would earn him more contemptuous glares, he thanked the serving girl again as she piled his plate high with food.

"Is it good?" Hawke asked, shoveling an unladylike bite of food in her mouth and earning the scandalized glances of the ladies.

"I wouldn't know," Fenris answered. "I can't taste it."

Hawke put down her fork, her expression worried. "Is this a recent thing?"

"No. I've never been able to."

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It would be worse if I knew what I was missing; I don't."

"That's certainly a way of looking at it," Hawke allowed, unable to keep from grinning. "You're surprisingly philosophical sometimes."

"Varric said the same thing."

"Well, if Varric said it, it must be true."

The musicians shifted into a slightly livelier tune as the second course was eaten and cleared away. The servants hurried out, this time bearing platters piled high with fruit and cheese and the conversation lulled somewhat. The feast had been lavish and heavy, and Hawke whispered that now was the time to recuperate before the dancing started.

Fenris had started at the word. He knew little of dancing, and what he'd learned was mostly from observation instead of practice. In Tevinter, especially in Danarius' parties, dancing was little more than a precursor to the erotic depravities later. As his stomach clenched nervously, he wondered if things would be much the same here.

"Fenris, is it?" a noble asked, his eyebrows arching into his receding hairline. "We're all quite curious as to the nature of those marks."

Well, Fenris supposed it would only be a matter of time before some nosy fop summoned the courage to ask. He looked to Hawke, who nodded encouragingly. "It really is a fascinating tale, isn't it?" she prompted.

It made him vaguely uncomfortable to see that most of the nobles around them had ceased their conversation, now listening in surreptitiously. "There was a grand melee," Fenris said as if the story were actually quite boring. "I was the winner, and the markings were the reward."

"I've never seen anything like them," a woman with a pointed face breathed.

"Just what are they?" another asked.

"They're lyrium. It was a great honor," Fenris said disinterestedly. To his surprise, however, the nobles swallowed his story whole. He was sure the lie would be obvious in his tone; there was no way such a thing could ever be construed as an honor.

The balding noble did not look convinced. "Was this a competition for elves, then?" he asked disdainfully.

He was aware of Hawke preparing to retort, but for once he beat her to it, his temper turning the words into weapons. "No. I fought elves, dwarves, _and _humans. I defeated them all," he said, and though it was probably a lie, considering the nature of the Imperium, he took great pleasure in the cowed and fearful expression it elicited on the man's face.

"Fascinating," the woman with the pointed face said. "And they're really made of lyrium?"

"Yes," he replied simply.

"Do you remember how they were applied?" another woman asked, and Fenris realized the noblewomen did not fear him; in fact, their expressions were almost covetous. He nearly laughed aloud at the foolishness of it all.

"No. Due to the nature of lyrium, there is little I remember of it," he said with some finality, hoping they would move on to the next oddity.

"It must have granted you some abilities," the woman with the pointed face pressed. "Otherwise there would be little use in such a thing."

"And you're sure?" Fenris retorted. "Perhaps they do nothing and are merely for cosmetic purposes."

"That's couldn't be true," another woman said, her mousy brown hair falling into her eyes.

"It is," Fenris said, and he shot a look to Hawke, who responded immediately.

"Come now, ladies. It is rude to press," she said lightly.

The women murmured polite apologies and leaned away, and it was only then Fenris realized they had been slowly orienting themselves toward him, as if drawn by some inexplicable force. The noblemen that accompanied them shot him a variety of churlish looks.

Hawke couldn't contain her laughter; she pressed her hands to her mouth in a futile attempt to repress it. "I was afraid they'd spirit you away for their own purposes," she giggled.

"They didn't seem to care that I am an elf!" Fenris whispered incredulously. "Well, the women didn't."

"Of course not. You're mysterious and handsome. They had a mind to try and seduce you."

"What?!"

"It's true. Half of those women are married to men who are neither handsome nor mysterious, and I imagine they're bored. Did any of them catch your eye?" Hawke teased, eyes dancing.

"Absolutely not," Fenris hissed.

"Thank the Maker. I was worried for a second."

"You've no cause to worry," Fenris said seriously before he could check his tongue. He cursed himself. The strange atmosphere and Hawke's unfamiliar dress and beauty were chipping away at his normally perfectly controlled tongue, and he mashed his lips in a line to keep from speaking again.

But Hawke didn't reply cheekily, as he'd hoped. Instead, she blushed and the effect was so unbearably lovely he had to look away, lest he lose control in other, more dangerous ways.

The servants returned to spirit the last course away, and as if on cue the musicians struck up a lively tune. The nobles rose daintily from their seats, making their way to the center of the floor. The dance was prim and controlled; the men and women circled each other, palms touching, before breaking into a series of bows and curtseys. Fenris had never seen anything like it.

"It gets better," Hawke whispered to him. "I hope."

They watched as Varric moved smoothly through the floor, charming the women and making the men laugh pompously. Fenris knew Varric well enough to know that he was deathly bored; he could see it in the slightly insouciant curve of his lips as he made his way from person to person.

"What did you do yesterday?" Fenris asked Hawke, and he spoke in a regular tone of voice now that most of the nobles were out of their seats.

"Anders and I found the missing Qunari," she said, her lips curving into a frown.

"What happened?"

"A guardsman had been bribed to turn the other way so Ser Varnell could abduct them. He took them to a hovel in Lowtown for a makeshift ceremony or something; there was this crowd of zealots frothing at the mouth for blood. Which he gave them, of course." She sighed, idly tracing her finger over the polished wood of the table. "Sister Patrice was behind it. Sorry; Mother Patrice."

"Seems like she's in the middle of most of the trouble with the Qunari. First with the Saarebas . . ."

"It's true. It's going to bite her in the ass one of these days. Ser Varnell killed the Qunari and then ordered the zealots to attack us." She sighed again. "It was a slaughter."

"What a mess."

"Tel me about it. I doubt that's the last we'll hear of Patrice."

The lapsed into silence as the musicians began a new tune. Fenris regretted broaching the subject, for whatever light mood of Hawke's had been completely ruined. Though it started with concern, he felt it change as he watched her. He felt suddenly ravenous, light-headed, and though he knew he shouldn't, he couldn't keep his gaze away from her. Instead, he drank in the sight of her, the lines of her back and waist, the curve of her breasts.

He blinked and looked away, his heart thudding in his ears. It was cheap to stare lecherously, and it was futile. Even if he could let go of the fear long enough to touch her, to kiss her, he had no idea as to the mechanical considerations of such an act. Foolish. He didn't know exactly how old he was, but he was old enough to have known what to do by now.

The tune changed again, and just as Fenris was about to speak to her again, a young noble man approached them. "Lady Hawke, would you give me the honor of a dance?" he asked in a formal tone that Fenris knew he could never replicate.

"Ah- yes," she said, flustered. She rose and took the man's arm, shooting Fenris an apologetic glance, and he tried desperately to ignore the burn of jealousy that nearly consumed him.

He watched them carefully as the music rose to a new height. Hawke was a skilled dancer. She and the nobleman moved gracefully together, and Fenris' jealousy mingled now with despair. They looked fine together, he had to admit; the man was straight and typical, inoffensively average in almost every way. He had never been a slave, he had no lyrium grafted into his flesh. He had no master on his heels. He was normal, beautifully so, and he was everything Hawke deserved.

Not that she deserved a boring man. But she deserved a life where mere association with a man wouldn't put her in grave danger. She deserved someone who could give her what she needed without it being a terrible effort and struggle. She deserved ... better.

Well, hadn't she had that with the boy she'd been with in Lothering? He remembered the story; the boy who had wanted her to settle, to be a farmer's wife. She had refused and instead jumped at the chance for excitement and adventure. Her choice wasn't safety, it was risk and passion and adventure.

As he watched, Hawke's expression changed from one of polite disinterest to one of discomfort and then fear. The young noble's hands had tightened on her waist and he pulled her closer to him. She struggled against his grip, her face contorting in pain as he grasped her too hard.

He wasn't aware of leaping out of his seat through the red haze of his rage, but in the next instant he was beside them. "I believe you're hurting the lady," he said, his voice cold with fury.

"Call off your hound, Lady," the nobleman sneered, but his eyes had gone wide as he took in Fenris' deadly expression, and the lyrium markings branded into his flesh. "I'll go." He faded into the crowd as quickly as he had come, leaving the two of them standing at the side of the parlor, pressed close enough to touch. Hawke was flushed with anger and her hair was slightly askew, and his stomach twisted. Even mused, she was achingly beautiful.

Again the music changed, this time to a slow processional, and the nobles around them split into pairs. "Here," Hawke said quickly. "Can you do a pavane?"

He'd seen it done before and it seemed simple enough, the steps indolent and easy to mimic. He nodded and she grabbed his hand, falling into line with the rest of the dancers and he tried to ignore the jolt that coursed through him at the touch.

It was a simple enough dance; slow, thoughtful, and surprisingly intimate. He had never held contact without someone as long as this, and to him it almost seemed as their skin blended together. He'd seen those hands just the other night, threaded with his, pale and bronze. He'd acquired a taste for it already, after hardly any exposure, after such a brief touch that it had ended nearly as it had begun.

The dancers turned to one another, and he found himself facing Hawke. Her stare was unfathomable, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat. He was no longer aware of the rest of the room; only of her.

He was a slave - before he'd been a man, he'd been a slave - and it was often the filter through which he saw the world. In a new place, among strangers, he would sink so deeply into vigilant focus that nothing could shake him, yet here, in this place, with Hawke's palm pressed against his, he found the opposite was true. His field of view had contracted to the shape of her, and nothing else existed.

And then as quickly as it had begun, the pavane ended with one last, tremulous note, and the strange spell that had come over him passed. Hawke blinked up at him as though she had been struck, her grey eyes strange and wide in the firelight. For one moment her hand tightened around his. "Let's go," she said breathlessly, urging him from the room.

They moved through the dark hallways quickly as shadows, but before they stepped outside Hawke stopped him. "Wait here," she said quickly.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"A little payback," she replied, then vanished into the darkness of the hall. He realized belatedly she had gone down into the cellar, but what she had in mind he had no idea. He waited for what seemed a breathless eternity, craning to see if any guards or the implacable butler were near.

Finally, she sprinted back into sight and in her arms were two bottles of what Fenris assumed to be wine. "Go!" she hissed delightedly, and they sped through the front door into the night beyond.

They tore through Hightown like children, giggling and racing, showing off for one another. She was fast, so fast - a red streak in the darkness - and he was long limbed and strong. He could have run alongside her for miles. They were nearly to the Chantry when she finally slowed and she burst into breathless laughter, clutching the bottles close.

"What's so funny?" Fenris asked.

"Ha! That noble that had his hands all over me? That was one of the de Launcet's," she guffawed. Suddenly her method of retribution became clear.

"Let me see those," Fenris said, smirking at her. The labels were too worn to guess the vintage, so he popped open a cork of it with his teeth and took a studious sniff, nearly dropping the bottle in surprise when he recognized it. "This is an aggregio pavalli. One bottle of this is nearly one hundred sovereigns."

"Then I chose well, wouldn't you say?" she replied, craning up to look at him. "Come with me; I know a nice place." She was off in the next second, moving through the silent streets as though she could see perfectly in the dark. He followed her, watching the shape of her dress shift as she ran and keeping his hands steady so as not to spill the wine.

Her place wasn't far; she had led him to a long abandoned building, but instead of going inside she clambered up a pile of crates that had been stacked against the side and jumped, pulling herself onto the flat roof. "Come on! Wait, give me the wine first."

"Priorities and all that," Fenris said dryly. He passed her the bottles before leaping up behind her.

She spun and gestured grandly, her dress fanning out around her legs. "May I present; the world," she said in a regal voice. Though she was partly joking, Fenris stared; the view was remarkable. Not only was there a view of every inch of Kirkwall, he could see past it, across the bay to the mountains and world beyond. The stars shone brighter than Fenris had seen in years, and the moon was waxing, a bright eye doubled by its reflection.

"Well?" she asked, hopping excitedly.

"It's beautiful," he said, though he no longer looked out to the world.

She grinned as she took a seat and grabbed one of the bottles of wine. "Join me for a drink?"

Fenris took a seat beside her, careful to keep himself at a cautious distance. It was almost as if they had entered a different world, and he no longer knew the rules here. He couldn't sense what would happen, and as he thought about it, he realized it didn't bother him as much as it should have.

He popped the cork off the other bottle and tapped it with Hawke's before taking an ambitious pull. Though he suspected it was wishful thinking, he almost thought he could taste the sweetness of the wine.

They were silent as they drank, and Fenris felt as if the space between them shook and vibrated with everything that was unspoken and needed. He didn't dare look at her, for he feared that if he did he would never be able to look away.

"Thank you for coming to this with me," Hawke finally said, playing with a loose thread on her sleeve.

He almost laughed. "You didn't really give me a choice in the matter."

"I did so!" she said indignantly. "You could have always said no."

"I was under the impression doing this was the only way I could earn your forgiveness," he said, though without heat. Her umbrage pulled his lips in a grin.

"Fine. I may have used the situation to my advantage. But you didn't have a completely terrible time, did you?"

He didn't answer at first, grinning as she squirmed. "No," he said finally. "It wasn't terrible."

"I'm glad. I was afraid you'd completely hate it and have no fun at all."

"Well, I can't say that spending time with the nobles was enjoyable," he explained. "I'm truly glad you haven't let your newly earned nobility go to your head."

"Ah," Hawke scoffed. "Nobility is just another thing to escape from, you know what I mean? Another chain keeping me here."

"You don't want to stay in Kirkwall?" Fenris asked, surprised. He'd often thought of leaving the city himself but the thought of leaving Hawke behind had decided him. But to hear that she had no intention of staying herself was different.

"No, not really. I'll stay for as long as Mother needs me. But I haven't seen all I want to see yet." She smiled then; a fond, wistful smile. "And I want to see a lot."

They fell into silence again, but this time he watched her as she gazed out at the bay, the slowly shimmering waters. A slight breeze caught at her hair, pulling a tendril of it from behind her ear, and she tucked it back impatiently. He watched her hands, the curve of her neck, the angle of her jaw. He couldn't, he couldn't-

Careful not to look at him, she reached for his hand, curling her own around it gently. She was warm, and her skin was impossibly soft on his. His pulse thudded in his ears, drowning the rest of the world out completely, drowning out whatever protest he'd hoped to utter.

He'd always known touch was dangerous. He had assumed only reason for it, though. From his first memory, he'd learned that touch only led to pain and suffering, and so he'd avoided it. But he'd been wrong; there was pleasure in touch, and a different kind of danger. For now that he knew the pleasure of it, he didn't know how to stop. He didn't know how to keep from wanting more.

She stared up at him, those astonishing eyes clouding over with want, such a desire that he knew it too. He felt her hand shake, though he knew it was not from the cold. With a halting breath, she pulled her hand away from his, her eyes clenching shut from the force of effort. And he realized instantly that she was restraining herself for his benefit, for his comfort. It struck him almost like a physical blow; he knew she wanted him and yet she summoned the will to control her want, her need. The realization was so tender, he felt himself shift inexorably toward her, her bottomless care deciding him.

She still hadn't opened her eyes, her hands balled into trembling fists. He leaned close until their faces were only inches apart and yet she still did not open them. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the smooth skin of her cheek, her jaw, and though her breath caught she still did not look at him. Hardly daring to breathe himself, he closed the distance between them until their lips met.

Nothing could have prepared him for this. Her breath rippled through him and he trembled, held her closer. Her hands threaded through his hair, holding him fast and he groaned, wanting more, needing more. She was so soft! Her lips moved against his, trailing a burning path of kisses up his neck, his jaw, meeting his lips.

How could he have never known this? How could he stop now? He was uncontrollable, uncontainable; he pulled her closer with a rough groan of need, taking her lips as his. She didn't fight him, and their kisses burned, scalded the air, the very sky. Years of desire possessed him, almost as if it had become a physical entity; it moved his hands over her body hungrily, over the tight expanse of her waist and the smooth flesh of her breast. She moaned and it lanced through him, more powerful than anything he'd felt in his life, pleasure or pain.

Any semblance of thought had vanished between them. He pinned her with one smooth motion, moving over her and taking kisses as he went. Every inch of him responded to her touch, somehow both insistent and unsure. Her hair splayed on the ground, her eyes finally open and her stare was heavy with want. She had needed this for as long as he had; it had been an instant reaction, now tempered with the fathomless care he felt for her. He couldn't control his hands; they moved without his consent. In her hair, her breast, up her thigh . . .

She broke away abruptly, breathing heavily. Her eyes were dark and wet with need, but her lips turned downward into a frown as she struggled to push herself up. "Fenris," she said breathlessly. "Hold on."

He sat up immediately, cowed by her tone. The insane desire was slowly fading and he watched her, struggling to catch his breath. "I'm sorry," he said, shame washing over him, harsh as a bucket of ice. "I thought you-"

"I _do. _But do you?"

Fenris didn't understand the question. He'd never wanted anything more than he wanted her at that moment, and as he watched her serious expression he struggled for the words. "Yes," he finally said.

"I believe you," she breathed. "But . . . not now."

"Wh-?"

"Because, Fenris. I know what this is to you. I don't want to rush or force anything. And once you're in your right mind," she smiled, "you'll agree."

Fenris gulped a deep breath. She was right, of course she was right. The shame deepened as he realized what he'd nearly done. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling as if he would suffocate under the weight of his foolishness.

"For what? That was amazing!" Hawke said, laughing breathily.

It'd been more than amazing.

"Come on. Walk me home," she said, and he leapt to his feet to help her upright, relishing the feel of her hand in his.

They carefully dropped from the roof to the street below and made their way through the shadowy alleys. Hawke moved silently beside him, shifting in and out of the shadows with a smile of her face. The red of her dress seemed impossibly vivid in the moonlight.

They reached the Amell estate far too soon; for the first time, he took in the familiarly carved Amell crest with dismay. He didn't want her to go, not yet. Not ever. She perched in front of the door, seeming to hover in indecision; her expression moved between extremes quick as lightning.

"Good night," she finally said, craning up to look him in the eyes.

"Good night," he echoed.

They stared at one another and he watched a slow smile bloom on Hawke's face, charming and beautiful as anything he'd ever seen. She pulled him to her by his tunic, kissing him as if they'd never kiss again. He responded instantly, his hands moving over the planes of her shoulders, holding her tightly. He moved closer unthinkingly and only the impossibly loud sound of fabric ripping jolted them apart.

With dismay, Fenris realized he'd stepped on the hem of her dress. "Shit," he cursed furiously. When had he become such an insufferable clod?

But Hawke laughed. "It's just a dress," she soothed.

"It was a nice dress," he argued. "Expensive. You looked nice in it."

Her smile became wicked, defiant. With a flourish, she knelt down and tore the ripped piece right off, leaving a very noticeable hole in her hem. She pressed the wadded fabric into the palm of his hand and folded his fingers around it, her smile deliciously coy. "And now you'll always remember it."

With one last kiss that seared him down to his toes, she pulled the door open. "Good night," she whispered, and he watched her smile disappear behind the closed door. Unable to bring himself to leave, he laid his bare palm against the coarse wood, slowly teaching himself to breathe once again.


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Huge thanks and cookies to my lovely and awesome reviewers: personwiththelongname , Ol'Dandy Me, ChaoticByDesign, Blackheart214, diaboliquesuicideglam, Serenity's Melody, Dreister Dieb, Allie, Lioba, Cruellae, Kainen-no-Kitsune, 404pants, R2s Muse, Crystal Night, Torilund Archer, CreatedInFyre7, Jedi Kacee, socialkombat, BiasedRaincloud, and . I love hearing from each and every one of you guys!**

**Bah, I'm sorry this chapter took forever to post (and in such a cliffhangery spot too, I know). I'm in a new semester, but thankfully I think I've found a good schedule for writing, so updates should come at a more regular rate now.**

**This chapter was a bit depressing to write, but I think we all know where things are going ;)**

**As always, I love hearing what you all think, so drop me a line and let me know how I'm doing. Enjoy and thanks for reading!**

In the time he had known Hawke, Fenris had also come to know two aspects of his character. These aspects of himself rarely agreed on anything, and it was constantly a cause for misery and upset. It came as some surprise to recognize this internal monologue as being faceted, and it was strange to him that he could have lived for so long without ever having realized it.

There was the slave; the part of him that was all caution and fear. Anger. When faced with a new situation or experience, the slave's reaction was to run, to hide. To avoid open spaces and open trust. Frankness and honesty. The slave was everything that had been conditioned into him through a life fraught with pain, hardship, and the never-ending expectation of an evil master.

And opposite the slave was the man. For every part of the slave that feared, there was an equal part of the man that yearned. That ached and wanted. The man sought freedom and everything that he had been denied. The man felt desire burn at the edges of his vision, itching in his fingers and skull, insistent and ever present. The man was everything that had been born into him; what he suspected he would have been if not a slave.

Where these two aspects of him had always warred against one another, in the days and weeks after Hawke's kiss, they veered even further into opposition. Every moment was a battle, with the slave screaming at him to run and the man ordering him to stay, to give in. To love.

It was maddening.

Fenris found he could not decide. He could not divorce himself from the slave just as he couldn't divorce himself from the man, so he walked a kind of a half-life. He stayed, but became remote. He allowed himself thought as to the possibility of a life with Hawke but did not take it any further than that. How could he with the slave screaming in his ear?

How could he run with the man telling him to stay?

There was always the unanswered question, the unmet expectation. Just as it had ended with the Fog Warriors, he waited for the hammer to fall. He waited for the day when Hawke sent him away, or when his master found him again. Would his master be able to turn him against Hawke? Would his words take root in his mind, twisting and turning what he knew for truth?

He knew one thing for truth, one thing that could not be turned or changed. Hawke was something to him, something beyond anything he'd ever known, beyond anything he'd ever thought to dream. He couldn't divorce the slave or the man from him, but the thought of her cowed these shouting aspects into silence for a time. It was almost as if she had become another facet of his character. And he could no more cleave her from him as he could the slave or the man.

He didn't want to, above anything else. He couldn't, but he didn't want to.

So the weeks passed in an awkward impasse, a kind of tentative acceptance. An inevitable coming together. They both sensed it the way one can sense a storm coming in, the way it burns and rolls over the horizon, churning like the contents of an upset cauldron. They both sensed it and did nothing to stop it. The air was live between them and they both knew it was only a matter of time before it changed, before the tension burst and ignited with the force of everything they had kept hidden.

* * *

"I shit you not, Rivaini, it was this big," Varric said, gesturing as he spoke.

"You're full of it. I've held countless in my hands and not a single one was that big."

"Would I lie to you?"

Isabela laughed, a lusty sound that echoed through the paths and wilds of the Wounded Coast. "Is this a serious question?"

"You wound me," Varric said, and he clutched at his chest dramatically. "I'm not kidding! It was this big!"

Behind them, Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "I don't want to know what you're talking about, do I?"

"I don't know, Hawke," Isabela said, shooting an insouciant glance in Fenris' direction. "I'd say this is your area of expertise as well."

Hawke arched a brow. "All right; what are you two on about?"

"We're talking about knives, of course! Well, daggers technically. I can never tell the difference." Varric shot Hawke a teasing glance. "Why? What did you think I was talking about?"

Hawke didn't react for a moment, and Fenris found himself watching her expression carefully, waiting for the hammer to fall. But she didn't groan or complain. She laughed; the kind of laughter that doubles you over and steals your breath. She laughed the kind of laughter that spreads and is caught.

"I love you guys," she said, wiping at her eyes. "Never, never change."

Isabela mock saluted and Varric whipped an imaginary hat off his head, sinking into an exaggerated bow. "I am to amuse, my lady."

Though Fenris would never admit it aloud, he was growing to appreciate the presence of Isabela and Varric; two people who never met a silence they didn't think they could fill. The constant background of their delighted banter and unselfconscious laughter was becoming a kind of reassurance in these frankly boring assignments.

This particular assignment was especially dull. A patrol of Qunari had gone missing near the Wounded Coast, so they had set out to ascertain their fate. Hawke hadn't said so, but he suspected she believed the patrol already dead; the Wounded Coast was a haven for slavers and bandits of all kinds, and considering the tension surrounding the Qunari already, it certainly was not a stretch to think they had been killed in the course of their patrol.

Fenris hung back as Hawke spun an especially ridiculous tale for Varric and Isabela, watching the color in her cheeks, the curve of her lips. He watched the way her hands flew animatedly as she talked, as if she longed to physically shape her story. He watched her the way one watches a priceless treasure; with joy and protectiveness mingled equally.

It had been two weeks since the party at de Launcet's. Two weeks since they danced, since they spoke with new understanding. Two weeks since they kissed. It had been two weeks, but it seemed simultaneously to have been only hours and years ago; Fenris was certain that if he touched his lips he would feel a trace of her there, and yet every day that passed seemed fill the span of an entire year.

She had told him to wait, to be sure that this was what he wanted. He knew she was showing him a kindness, one that he'd mentally added to the list of things he would repay. She didn't know that placing the decision with him had given him the most frustrating and impotent two weeks he'd ever known.

He'd suffered many indignities in his life; it was a reality in existence as a slave. He had been made to do terrible, humiliating things, but always there was the small comfort that what was done to him was at no fault of his own. He could not control what happened to him, and that realization allowed a kind of recovery and acceptance. But here with Hawke, the only thing stopping him was his own reluctance, his own fear. The impotence he felt was real, with no hope of recourse; this was his fault, and only he would be able to change the situation.

He cursed himself. Wasn't that what freedom was? The chance to make his own decisions? What kind of hypocrite was he if he spent his time bemoaning being forced to decide for himself after spending six years attempting to carve out his own freedom?

This whole situation was awkward and fraught with complication. On the one hand, he could watch Hawke constantly. He could speak to her without taking a breath for hours, for days; indeed, sleep had become a wretched burden, a punishment of isolation. With her, there was the beginnings of a trust he'd never known in his life. And of course, there was the desire that threatened to consume him totally.

On the other hand, there was the fear that hounded him at every breath, every step. There was the slave he'd been, the slave that he could not escape.

Fenris sighed, watching Hawke burst into laughter again, savoring the sound of it. He suspected the complication was largely his own fault; borne from years of watching his steps and breaths, denying and being denied everything. He resolved to learn to give her what she gave him, a promise now so common it had become a kind of prayer, an incantation.

"You still alive over here?" Hawke asked him.

"Last time I checked," Fenris answered quickly, chastising himself. He lapsed into worried thought and agonizing speculation far too often, especially in the last two weeks. It was natural to worry, but it was inexplicably easy to forget his worries when she smiled at him, as she did now.

"You have any plans for tonight?" Hawke said with a deliberately casual air, twisting her hands behind her back.

Fenris didn't answer immediately. Most nights he haunted the Hanged Man, watching Hawke and the others drink and gamble through the night yet never quite comfortable joining in. But he heard the unspoken question in Hawke's words. He saw her tentative overture and it simultaneously thrilled and terrified him.

"Not anything specific," he hedged neutrally, unwilling to make the nearly palpable desire between them even more obvious. In truth, he'd like nothing more than to spend the entire night with her; talking, sharing . . . touching.

"Nothing specific," Hawke echoed. "Too bad."

Fenris fought his reaction. He knew this was a game -one of the many they played- and he didn't really understand the rules. He longed to take a step closer to her and yet instinct shouted at him to run, so in the end they circled one another; a careful dance of desire and caution. It would be easier to maintain his safety and pride if he could tell himself he tired of their games, their careful approach. It was a lie, of course. The years at Hawke's side had slowly taught him the value of honesty when it came to himself. What use was there in convincing yourself of a lie?

"I'm open to ideas," Fenris offered. Another sidestep, another tentative pace forward.

An exasperated groan filled the tense silence and Varric buried his face in his palm. "For the love of the Ancestors," he growled.

"Pay up!" Isabela hissed delightedly.

Hawke wasn't affected in the slightest; she fixed her two friends with a cool gaze, eyebrows arching delicately into her hairline. "Didn't I tell you to stop making wagers on my personal life?"

Isabela shrugged unrepentantly as Varric pressed a handful of coins into her waiting palm, his expression sour. "A girl's got to eat," she replied.

"So do I!" Varric cut in, outraged. "At this rate, she'll put me in the poor house."

"It's not my fault you're always wrong," Isabela said, airily examining her fingernails.

"Excuse me for having some faith in our broody elven compatriot."

"Yes, that's it exactly. A case of misplaced faith."

They all knew Varric well enough to know he wasn't actually angry, but he made an extremely convincing show of it. "Feel free to step in here, elf," he snapped.

"I refuse to get involved," said Fenris, throwing up his hands as if to ward off this newest foolishness.

"Are you kidding?" Varric said incredulously. "And after all I've done for you?"

Fenris shrugged. "I remain hopeful that you two will eventually tire of gambling over the details of my personal life."

"Fat chance of that," Isabela offered, counting her ill-gotten gains with a delighted air.

She and Varric lapsed into good-natured argument, trading barbs faster than one could almost hear. Hawke said nothing, but a smile tugged at her lips and lit her eyes. When she caught Fenris's stare, her smile widened and Fenris felt his heart clench. All that was between them echoed outward like a plucked string, heavy and horribly obvious. Though at that moment, watching Hawke smile as the sun shone, he found he did not care.

Something shifted in his peripheral vision. Bushes rustled and he heard the sudden flurry of hurried footfalls, approaching quickly. The day was bright and bare, and though they tried at stealth he recognized them in the time it took to suck in a quick breath of shock. The mark of Tevinter was blunt on their armor.

Slavers.

Hawke noticed half an instant after he did, and her smile slowly gave way to surprise. Anger followed; it seemed to carve her features from stone. She gestured quickly, her hands moving in stark and violent motions, and behind her Varric and Isabela fell silent as well.

Ice flooded his gut and he felt himself easing into a defensive stance purely out of instinct. His furious thoughts circled him, threatening to overwhelm, but he had done this before. He shut them out; the iron wall of instinct firmly in place. There was no need to think now, only to survive. This was a dance he had perfected many times.

"You there," a robed man called out, holding his hands up in a gesture of power and authority. "You are in possession of stolen property of the High Senator Danarius. Turn it over now, and you will be spared."

He felt Hawke's fury rise beside him; palpable as an uncontrollable flame held too close to his skin. "Fenris is no one's property," she hissed vehemently. "He is a free man!"

"I will not say it again," the magister threatened. "You've one last chance to obey."

Fenris felt the lyrium flare in the back of his mind first, and half a second later he was aflame, burning with a focused rage and intent. But Hawke answered the magister for him; in a motion that was impossibly graceful even in its visceral violence, she whipped a throwing dagger across the breach, where it sunk into the neck of the slaver closest to the magister. He dropped to the ground, and the only sound he made was a gurgle of disbelief.

The magister barely had a chance to turn his head before Fenris descended upon the rest of the slavers, the lyrium blurring him into one livid streak against the backdrop of the wilds. He was hardly aware of Hawke moving in and out of the path of his blade, quick as he was deadly. It was almost too easy to defeat them; for every slaver that got too close, Fenris would whip around and plunge his clenched fist into the man's chest, already moving onto the next as the slaver sank to the ground.

Fenris turned his attention to the magister then. He had cowardly encased himself in a pulsing shield of arcane energy rather than help his lackeys, but the shield was flickering as he lost control of the spell. Hawke circled the mage, daggers hanging loosely in her hands. Her gaze was intent, predatory; she was a hunter, and the mage was her prey. Fenris caught her gaze then and a moment of wordless communication passed through them; she nodded imperceptibly, bending to his will.

It was over in the blink of an eye. The shield vanished and the mage swung his staff around, already muttering an incantation. But Hawke was faster. She struck out quick as a flash, and the magister cried out as her blades rent through flesh and muscle. He dropped to the ground, clutching his now useless legs.

Though there no longer was an immediate danger, Fenris did not relax from his position of readiness. The slavers had found him. Finally, Danarius had found him and he needed to know how. He needed to know who drove the masses of slavers now, who cracked the whip above their heads. He wanted to drag every last secret out of the pathetically flailing magister before him, but an instinctive part of Fenris already knew. If it wasn't one, it was the other.

He advanced on the fallen magister, the lyrium pulsing over his skin; a second, deadly heart. He seized a fistful of the magister's hair and pulled his head back violently; enough to hurt, not kill.

"Where is he?" The question came through his lips, using a voice he hadn't used in years; one that encompassed every ounce of rage and fear that boiled within him now.

"I don't know!" the magister cried. Without a sound, Fenris smashed the magister's head into the dirt with only enough force to rattle.

"Don't lie to me," Fenris hissed. "Where is he?"

"He's not here! He didn't come!" the magister sputtered through a mouthful of dirt and blood.

Fenris didn't respond, smashing the magister's head into the dirt once more. This time he allowed himself to use more force, though he knew the effort to be futile. Mages were cowardly and self-serving, but he doubted this one knew anything of interest.

Fenris tightened his grip, his muscles banding as he prepared to snap the mage's neck, but the magister cried out at the last moment. "Wait! Ha-Hadriana brought us," he said thickly, his voice trembling.

"Where is she?" Fenris said, and his voice twisted violently on the words.

"The old slaver caverns, due west. I can show you the way!" the magister said, grasping.

A thick wave of disgust rolled through him. This thing before him was nothing more than a wretch, a disgusting boil on the face of the world. Cowardly and cruel, ruthless. How many slaves did this man possess and treat with cruelty, even as he would try to show a harmless face now? "No need," Fenris snarled. "I know the ones you speak of."

"Then let me go," the magister pleaded. His voice had become high and plaintive, and his eyes were wide with an animal fear. A fear Fenris understood and reviled. He didn't say a word, for there was nothing that needed to be said. In this world of hunters and prey, the mage had been caught and defeated. He'd been dead for minutes already and not known it.

With a quick jerk, Fenris snapped the mage's neck and he slumped immediately, dead before he hit the ground. He leapt to his feet. Years of cruelly gotten instinct shouted in every fiber of his being.

"Fenris," Hawke said. Though she only said his name, he understood her intent. Every trace of joy was gone from her face; she was as hard and somber as the day she had given up her sister to the Wardens. She didn't run or back away from him in his mute fury, she didn't turn away when he gave himself completely to instinct and rage. Her presence was more support than he knew how to process.

"I was a fool to think I was free," he spat, hurling the words into the world like knives. "I was a fool if I thought this would ever be over."

"You are free," Hawke insisted.

He rounded on her. "Am I? Can you call it freedom when you are forever hounded by those who would take it from you? What kind of freedom is a half-life spent fleeing those who would do me harm?"

"Have they taken it?" she fired back, her eyes hard. "To my eyes, you're still standing here of your own will."

"You don't understand!"

But Hawke did not allow herself to be intimidated by his temper. Her grey eyes narrowed dangerously, grey like storm-swollen clouds boiling over the coast. "Am I to understand you will lose yourself to despair at the fist sign of trouble in years?"

He froze mid-retort. How was it that she was always right? How was it that she could always cut to the crux of an issue, quick and mercilessly as a blade? He shook his head, mastering the seething anger that boiled just below the surface. "I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. She'd done nothing to him, and everything for him.

"Don't be." She cleaned her blades carefully, wiping them on the robes of the magister. "What do you want to do?"

He knew the answer to this. "The caves," he said, and though he could not say any more, his intentions were plain in the barely concealed rage in his voice. Hawke nodded once and gestured with her daggers for him to take point, falling silently into step behind him.

They made their way west in completely silence; even Varric and Isabela said nothing, cowed by the seriousness of the situation. He felt their combined stares bore into his back, but he said nothing to alleviate the tension. He broiled, he simmered in his rage. He allowed himself to think of nothing but the revenge he knew was close at hand. He allowed himself to be propelled by the potency of a long fostered hate, as much a part of him as his flesh and blood.

Hadriana. He should have known. Danarius' hound, his first. His most precious student and plaything. Any crime that had been visited on him likely came by her hand at Danarius' orders. He had starved under her watch, been tortured and tormented for days and weeks for even the slightest disobedience. She was her master's hand, and it made a dumb sort of sense that Danarius would send her here now.

He dimly wondered how long she'd searched for him. He was not a conspicuous person and he aimed to live as far from the public eye as was possible for someone branded with lyrium, but he had always known his association with Hawke would bring the slavers back one day. In fact a part of him had counted on it. He had used her renown as a tool, wielding it as both protection and a taunt. It wasn't as if he kept this secret from Hawke; she knew all too well that someday Danarius would return for his property. He'd been upfront about that from the start. He'd made it a rare point of honesty.

Fenris balled his hands into tight fists. He was close now, he knew it. There was only one person he wanted dead more than Hadriana, and he presumably plotted from his estate in Minrathous. Perhaps the loss of his pet would finally draw him out, close enough to finally take the freedom he wanted.

The slaver caves were nondescript - nearly identical to the landscape around them- but Fenris knew them immediately for what they were. He had fallen into a role that was new and yet familiar; the role of the hunter. He had spent most of his life being hunted for some reason or another, and it was strangely empowering to do the seeking. To hold the lives of those that wronged him in his hands.

They moved through the caves in silence and the farther they went the more nervous Fenris became. They were conspicuously empty. Signs of many people living there were present; burned out campfires, tracks, various detritus, but no slavers remained. Fenris felt his stomach clench; if Hadriana and Danarius had evaded him yet again, he didn't know if he'd be able to control his stewing temper.

"Look," Hawke said, breaking through his furious thoughts. As they moved into a cavernous room, they saw a fresh corpse laid out on an altar, positioned in a highly ritualistic manner. Clean, almost surgical marks marred his throat and wrists, and Fenris felt his gut twist in a fresh wave of anger.

"Sacrifice. For blood magic," he explained, turning away from the ruined corpse. "If you doubted what kind of monster Hadriana is, you shouldn't now," he said, rougher than necessary.

Varric and Isabela said nothing, but Hawke didn't turn away from the bitterness in his voice. "I didn't doubt you." She touched the corpse's hand, turning it over in her own. "He's been dead for less than an hour," she determined. "She could still be here."

Fenris didn't say anything in response, turning on his heel and moving quickly through the caves. He wouldn't call what flared within him now hope, but rather an odd sort of determination. His feet propelled him onward without conscious thought, and the worries and concerns of the last months and years seemed strangely distant.

He had allowed himself to be tamed, he realized. He had allowed himself to feel safe and secure, part of Hawke's beautiful world. He had wanted that more than anything, and it had been a joy to forget what hounded him still. It had been a relief to forget the monsters that sought him for their own.

Hawke paused, gesturing for them to wait, to be quiet. Fenris soon saw why; in the next room a large contingent of slavers stood in wait. They did not speak amongst themselves and Fenris felt a burst of triumph; Hadriana was still here. She had ordered these slavers to stay here as a last ditch effort to keep herself safe.

He didn't wait for Hawke's approval; he shot forward into the room like an arrow from a crossbow, phasing into the lyrium as he went. The element of surprise served him well, for half of the slavers hadn't even had a chance to bring their weapons to bear before he cut them down.

The remaining few were hard-bitten and cagey and Fenris realized these were probably Hadriana's personal guard. They were fast and powerful, and most importantly they knew how to work in tandem. One taunted Fenris with quick and pointed jabs from his shield while the others circled around him, eager to sink their blades into his exposed backside. But they left themselves open to attack as a result. Hawke and Isabela snuck around them on careful feet, and by the time they realized the danger it was too late for them. One spun around in a quick attempt to defend but Hawke was too fast; she slipped her blades in between his ribs before he could take another breath.

It was over fairly quickly after that. Fenris found himself remembering a comment Hawke had made, in what had seemed like many years ago. Fenris was strong on his own, but with her at his side he was even more deadly. Where he was fast and flashy, she was subtle and quick. He shook the thought away before it could distract him any further.

In the corner of the room Fenris heard a small choked gasp, moments from becoming a sob. He spun toward the source of the sound and met a pair of large, frightened green eyes, staring fearfully back at him. A slave, he quickly realized. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sloppy twist and she was painfully thin; all jutting angles. He felt an unwelcome sense of pity, mingled with the uncomfortable sensation of looking into a mirror. He'd been much the same as her, once.

"Where is Hadriana?" he asked her, careful to keep his tone even.

The elf nodded toward the door in front of them, trying and failing to conceal her trembling. "You're the one she's waiting for," she said, a timid squeak of a voice.

"What did she say?"

"She said someone was coming to hurt her. She . . . killed Papa for power. I don't understand," the elf trailed off, visibly shaking. "Things were fine before today."

Her words shot through Fenris as if she had hurled them directly with the intention of wounding him. He felt sick, the force of his disgust and shame threatening to overwhelm him completely. For he understood this elven slave all too well; her gaunt face was a cruel mirror, reflecting everything he had known and later fought in his life.

"They weren't fine," Fenris said slowly, swallowing a lump at the back of his throat. "You just never knew any better."

"What is your name?" Hawke cut in carefully.

"Orana," the elf said, and she watched Hawke with careful eyes, watching for the hammer to fall. "Are you my master now?"

"What? No!" Fenris said at once, disgusted.

"Oh," Orana said, and to Fenris' ears she sounded disconsolate, lost. As if she had hoped he would claim her now. He understood the way life suddenly seemed vast and incomprehensible when you were forced to live it on your own terms at first; he recognized the dull fear in her eyes.

Hawke had watched this exchange carefully. "I could use some help around my home, Orana," she said kindly, stooping to the girl's eye level.

Fenris nearly choked in shock and disgust. Had he misjudged Hawke all these years? Was she no better than the magisters he sought to free himself from? Temper overwhelmed reason, and he rounded on her. "From one thoughtless master to another," he hissed.

She shocked him by looked affronted. "Should she agree, I will pay her for her work, Fenris," she snapped. "And she'd be free to leave whenever she chose to." She turned back to Orana. "Do you understand? I'm not your master. You can leave whenever you like. You can choose to turn me down now."

"Yes, mistress," Orana said dutifully, eager to please.

"None of that." Hawke shot another furious glance in Fenris' direction. "I'm Hawke. Not mistress. Okay?"

Orana looked lost. ". . . Okay," she finally said, looking as if waiting for the punishment to descend.

But none came. Hawke gently took her by the shoulder and pushed her in the direction of the exit. "The road to Kirkwall should be clear. You can wait here or head there. Or go wherever you like. We'll be out soon."

Orana nodded and slowly trudged away, looking over her shoulder every now and then, as if she couldn't quite believe what had just happened to her. No one spoke; the silence was uncomfortably loud in Fenris's ears. He couldn't look at Hawke through the force of his shame. How could he have accused her so quickly? He'd known her for years now, and she'd never expressed anything but disgust as slavery.

Fenris opened his mouth to apologize but Hawke shook her head. "I'll pretend you didn't say what you did," she said, cutting him off smoothly. "Let's go."

He obeyed, turning on his heel and striding quickly through the door Orana had indicated. As he moved quickly through the halls of the cavern, he mentally added her understanding his unforgivable accusations to the list of things he would learn to repay.

Fenris sensed Hadriana before he saw her, the way one can sense an enemy nearby. It was purely instinctual, bordering on preconception. Part of him feared that the room at the end of the hall would be empty, and that it was only his driving need for retribution that fooled him now. But he needn't have worried; she was there as he pushed into the room.

She was much as he remembered. The same thin face, the same angular nose. The same piercing blue eyes, narrowed in malignant glee and cruelty. She had been waiting for them -Fenris could only guess for how long- and as soon as they stepped over the threshold, she shouted an incantation that raised the hair on his arms. From the floors, an army of demons surged forth.

"I will enjoy bringing you to heel!" Hadriana crowed, barely audible over the shrieks of the demons she conjured.

"Not as much as I will enjoy bringing you to your knees!" he shouted in return. His sword seemed to take on a life of its own; it carved through the demons like a knife through butter. His rage focused him, made him sharp and deadly; the lyrium sang over his skin in a furious conflagration. He'd never felt so powerful, so focused.

As he expected, the moment he approached her Hadriana disappeared within a shield of pure arcane energy, this one a thousand times stronger than the foolish magister on the hill. From within her shield, she conjured wave after wave of demons, each more powerful than the last.

But he was able to outlast her offense. Hawke weaved and danced in between the demons, always mere inches away from a pair of shadowy claws eager to rend her flesh. She and Isabela moved in smooth tandem, a pair of deadly twins, reflected light and dark. Behind them, Varric moved around the perimeter of the room, firing bolt after bolt into the fray and grinning when each found its mark.

But Fenris did not allow himself the pleasure in victory. It brought him no joy to realize they outmatched Hadriana and her demons. The only thing he felt was a long festering anger, pulsing through him like a frenzied heartbeat. Thudding through him like a drum. The only thing he saw were years of misery at the hands of the woman before him, her skeletal smile tormenting his waking hours and dreams alike. He snarled at the litany of memory, waiting for her to falter. Waiting for his chance.

Her shield flickered and died but she was already casting another spell. An explosion of flame burst from her hands, searing the room, stealing the breath from his lungs. But he curled up on himself, waiting for the flames to subside. He didn't notice Isabela's cry of pain and Varric's shout of fear. He waited.

Fenris leapt from the ground before the flames had completely died away, crossing the space between them so quickly he was nothing more than a lyrium blur against the red of the walls. Hawke moved in and out of his path, as deadly and intent as he was. Hadriana was tired, but she was still dangerous and they knew it.

With an amused grimace Hadriana muttered another spell, this time shaping a ball of ice between her hands. She shot it forth like an arrow from a bow; all impossible and deadly speed. It crashed into Hawke with total violence, lifting her straight off her feet and sending her crashing onto the floor a good ten feet away.

To his shame, his instinct was to stop his assault on Hadriana. His instinct was to rush to Hawke's side, to make totally sure she was unharmed. A memory of blood rushing from a wound on her throat nearly took his feet from under him, but he pushed through, chancing only a quick glance back. Hawke had slumped to the ground; her gaze was distant and stunned, and she held a shaking hand to the lacerations on her chest.

Real rage pounded through him, anger that was more animal than human. It was enough that Hadriana sought to take the freedom away he had fought for, but it was another thing altogether that she threatened Hawke now. That clever bitch had probably seen it in the way he and Hawke danced around one another, fighting as a unit, almost of one mind. She had sensed the only weakness Fenris had allowed himself to have.

With a feral howl, Fenris shot forward again with a speed that was altogether inhuman. For the first time in their confrontation, the smug smirk vanished from Hadriana's face, replaced by a white-boned fear. She attempted to dodge and dance Fenris's wild attacks while sending counter spells in his direction, but it was to no avail. He swung his greatsword around and slammed the pommel into her chest; hard enough to stun her and knock the breath from her lungs.

She flew backward and sprawled on the ground, her mouth working as she struggled to breathe. He advanced on her and kicked her staff from her hands; it clattered noisily into the corner. The lyrium surged over him, through him. He leaned over her, becoming a ghost, reaching for her chest-

"Stop! You do not want me dead!" Hadriana gasped.

"There is only one person I want dead more," Fenris snarled into her face.

Hadriana stared back at him, her strange eyes piercing like so many knives. "I have information, elf. I will trade it in return for my life."

"The location of Danarius?" Fenris spat. "I would much rather he lose his pet pupil."

He had nearly sunk his fist into her chest when she spoke again, her eyes wide with fear. "You have a sister! She is alive!"

Everything stopped. For a moment, Fenris was certain that no one in the room moved, spoke, or even breathed. He had assumed he'd had a family, but it had always been an abstract. Something that had been taken from him at an early age, dead or worse. It had never really occurred to him that his family was alive. It had never once dawned on him that he might have had a sister.

He was aware of Hawke at his side, and it spoke to his shock that it didn't even occur to him to be pleased she was on her feet. "How do we know you aren't lying, mage?" Hawke said, her voice weak and yet still barbed with mistrust.

At this Hadriana laughed, though too hysterical to be effortless and assured. "You don't! But I know Fenris. I know what he's searching for. If he wants me to betray Danarius," she said, her voice low and deadly, "he'll have to pay for it."

Hawke turned to look at him; he heard her breath rattling in her chest. He saw blood pooling at her wounds. "Do what you will, Fenris," she said, taking a step back. He recognized the gesture as one of allowance, acceptance. Her intentions were plain.

Fenris bent low, so that his and Hadriana's faces were only inches apart. Her breath was hot on his cheek. "You have my word."

"Your sister's name is Varania. She is a servant under Magister Ahriman in Qarinus."

"A servant, not a slave."

"Yes. You have my word," Hadriana said, pleading again. He saw the fear in her eyes, the mistrust. He wondered why she agreed to give him the information he wanted when she suspected he would not honor his bargain. He wondered why she would believe the best in him after all the years of misery she had visited on him.

"I believe you," was all he said, and it was a lie. The lyrium sang over his skin once again, almost as if in agreement. He surged forward, his fist crushing the breadbasket of her chest, the pulpy mass within. She made no sound as she slumped to the ground, and no breath escaped her lips as she fell.

He felt no relief at her death, which surprised him. He'd spent years of his life dreaming of what it would feel like to have her at his mercy after he'd been at hers for so long. He'd dreamed of the relief he was sure he'd feel, the joy even. He'd been sure he'd feel justified; as if he had visited true justice and retribution on a person -no, a thing- that deserved to be punished.

He felt none of these things. There was only the slow fade of furious instinct replaced by a creeping unease. There was only the fear again; the fear that had hounded him for so many years. It was beyond disappointing to realize the death of Hadriana did nothing to his fear. He was abruptly furious again.

"We're done here," Fenris said, sheathing his sword and stepping over Hadriana's prone form. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to be in Kirkwall; far from safe, but the furthest thing to security he'd ever known. He wanted the dark and quiet of the mansion, and a chance to sort out his furiously circling thoughts.

"Fenris," Hawke said, watching him warily. "Are you all right?"

His temper flared. "No, I'm not all right," he snapped. "There is no reason I should believe I have a sister at all. And even if I did, I have no reason to believe this isn't a trap. Danarius probably sent her here to tell me some story about a sister, expecting me to rush off to save her."

"So you won't?" Hawke asked, her expression carefully neutral.

"You think I should?" Fenris retorted. "You think I should carelessly throw away what little I've gained here on the word of a traitorous witch more interested in keeping her life?"

"I didn't say that, Fenris" Hawke said gently.

But he was past hearing. "You heard her. She 'knows' me. She knows what I wanted; to be free. To have a family. What would have kept her from making up some story in the hopes of staying alive?"

"You're right," Hawke said, taking a step closer. "I'm not accusing you of anything."

Abruptly, he was furious at Hawke. He hated her understanding, he hated the tenderness and love in her eyes. He hated that he had just killed a woman in cold blood, and Hawke's only concern was for him; he could see it plainly in her expression, borne out of years of knowing her. He hated every kind thing he did for him, and he hated the growing list of things he felt he needed to repay her. He hated that she had trapped him with her care, and he hated that he wanted -no, he needed to be trapped. What use was freedom at all if he leapt into the arms of yet another master?

Fenris didn't say a word to her. He was totally and completely overwhelmed; past the threshold of rationality. He couldn't trust his traitorous tongue not to betray him, to say what he wanted to say instead of what he needed. He was afraid that instead of telling her to go away, he'd apologize. He'd confess. He was afraid that everything that had passed between them up until that moment would rush from his lips in this one vulnerable moment, where every protection was stripped bare.

He chose the only defense he knew, for the slave in him was quickest to react. He ran.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Thanks to Crystal Night**, **Personwiththelongname, Torilund Archer, TanukiKyuubi, Lioba, Kainen-no-Kitsune, Anon, Happy Little Cupcake, ZoraAngel, Riverdancekat09, CreatedInFyre7, socialkombat, and Jedi Kacee for the reviews, and to everyone else who has faved and followed. Your support is amazing. **

**AHEM- so uh, this chapter is rated M! ;)  
**

**I love hearing what you all think, so please please leave me a review with your thoughts! Thanks everyone, and enjoy!**

By the time Fenris had made it back the hovel he avoided calling home, his temper had faded completely. In fact, if he was honest with himself, it had abated long before he reached the limits of Kirkwall, but he lacked the courage to turn back and apologize once again for his childish behavior. Pride was a powerful thing, and Fenris had not yet learned to manage his own.

It was too much. He felt as if he had reached the capacity of his ability to deal with the world and its intrigues, especially considering that his threshold was quite low to begin with. In fact, it was as if the world knew of his weakness and directly targeted him, excessively eager to bring him as low as possible.

Though, he didn't exactly need help in making a fool of himself. He was adept at that all on his own.

In a pique of temper, Fenris kicked a ceramic pot across the room, where it shattered spectacularly a dozen feet away. It was usually mindless and satisfying to destroy things, and yet it did nothing for the frustrated guilt and fear that churned away within him now, a constant forge. As if testing that conclusion, he hurled an empty bottle as hard as he could across the room; the answering explosion of glass almost seemed to mock him.

Defeated, Fenris collapsed into the ever-present moth eaten chair facing the fire, sick at himself. Destruction no longer provided the outlet he needed; he was forced to confront every facet of his problems like an adjusted person. He was aware of the irony.

Hadriana's final gambit rattled around his mind, a poorly latched window slamming against the frame in a storm. Experience told him to forget this sister, who was likely a creation entirely of Hadriana's in an attempt to startle him into letting her go. Fenris had no family. He had no memory of any family or past, and as far as he was concerned, this Varania was a construct, a ploy. A desire and weakness Hadriana knew all well to exploit.

But something nagged at him, something he could not place. Instinct, perhaps? The ghost of memory? He struggled to penetrate the murky darkness of his memory, but there was nothing to be seen or experienced. Its absence alone gave Fenris pause though, for it was not the absence of nothingness but the absence of something had and lost. Conspicuous and nagging.

On a whim, he briefly entertained the notion that Hadriana's information wasn't a lie. What would he do? What _should _he do? Obviously tromping north to the Imperium was out of the question. Danarius would likely be lying in wait with a force large enough to subdue Fenris back into his service, and that would be the inglorious end of his freedom. Or what passed for it, anyway.

He may not have a man hounding his steps and sleep, but the burden of choice and indecision was a master of its own kind.

So, perhaps Varania was real. Perhaps she was indeed Fenris's sister. And stealing into the Imperium to spirit her away was the height of foolishness. What then? Fenris mused, pushing his untidy hair out of his eyes, considering the situation from its multiple treacherous angles.

If Varania really was his sister, she would most likely remember him . . . wouldn't she? He was an adult when he came into Danarius's service, so he must have been an adult when he was forced to part with his family.

There was an easy way to test this, made possible only because of Hawke's careful and patient instruction. He would send word, perhaps hire a courier. He would invite her here to Kirkwall, far away from the Imperium. His sister was a servant now, not a slave, so perhaps she knew how to read and write herself. And if she didn't, the courier could read the letter to her.

Though what if Danarius was expecting such contact? What if he used the letter to track him here?

Well, wasn't that what he wanted? A final confrontation with his master, ending in either freedom or death. Yes, he wanted that for himself. He dreamed of it, planned the moment from many different angles over and over again in his mind. Yet, he did not want to bring Danarius here, where he only had to open his eyes to see Hawke and her impossible effect on him. Where all he had to do was stretch out his hand and sear her with death and magic, leaving them both destroyed.

The thought was more than painful. It sent a furious wave of pure, unadulterated panic coursing through Fenris; one so terrible that he leapt from his seat, pacing furiously around the fire in a weak attempt to calm his horribly pounding heart.

He knew Danarius was capable of such monstrosities. He'd seen his master delight in the taking of a life, comparing it to pure art, unimaginable beauty. Comparing it to sex. Indeed, there had seemed to be no end to the depths of depravity that his master would explore, all with the same beatific smile on his face, the one Fenris had come to associate with pain and fear potent enough to choke on.

Fenris took a deep, gulping breath, willing himself to be calm, to be logical. He would never allow that to happen. If Danarius came to Kirkwall, Fenris would end his life himself.

And he would not take pleasure in it. Fenris made an emphatic point to keep his own character and compulsions as distinct from Danarius as he was able. Murder and death was not something to lavish in. It was sometimes necessary, but never a joy. Never a pleasure.

Yet, hadn't he taken some kind of pleasure in killing Hadriana? Hadn't he been relieved to see her dead at his feet?

Relief, yes. Not joy, not pleasure. It was necessary. It was needed. Hadriana was a blight on the world, a pox on the face of anything good and pure. She delighted in wreaking havoc and misery, and the world was better for her loss. He had done the right thing, the _good _thing. It would have been wrong to let her free into the world after the choices she had made and the pain she had inflicted, not just on him but on any slave she encountered.

He remembered an elven girl that had been Hadriana's handmaid. She was hardly older than thirteen; miniscule and meek, with exceptionally large eyes. More than anything else, Fenris remembered her eyes. They had been a striking shade of violet, so often widened in horror and fear. She had quick and skillful hands, able to create all manner of beautiful things for her mistress to wear, clothing and jewelry alike.

And yet, Hadriana had grown to hate her, for her skill and the small solace and relief she took in creation. One by one, she had the elven girl's fingers cut off, one a day. And then her toes. And then her hands. Then her eyes. The girl had finally died of infection, the wounds rotting green and black, the stench of putrid flesh and pus hanging in the air long after she had expired. He saw her empty-socketed stare in his nightmares for years after, the absence of those striking violet eyes haunting; it was one of the memories he'd never been able to escape, regardless of how far he ran.

After the girl had been disposed of, Danarius asked Hadriana why she would do such a thing. Hadriana had replied that she had wanted to destroy something beautiful. So many of the people and things they ruined were already broken somehow. Tainted by ambition or cruelty, scarred by the horrible things they had done. She had wanted to know what it was like to destroy something good and pure.

Danarius had approved.

So no, he would never take that kind of joy in destruction, in ruin. He would never rejoice at the act of murder. It was necessary. A means to an end. A tool, and sometimes a weapon. Hadriana was dead, and she'd never be able to inflict horrors on another creature again.

So why then was he filled with such disquiet?

Fenris tried to convince himself it had to do totally with the possible existence of his sister and the ever-present threat of Danarius, looming over the horizon like a storm. He knew the possibilities of Danarius and every threat he represented was a constant torment, an ever-present alarm constantly triggering the instinct to survive, to flee.

And yet, he knew that a large part of his unease tonight was because of Hawke. He was foolish to deny it. He was foolish anyway.

He had never lost control of his temper like he had today. He had become more creature than man, a snarling beast intent on destruction, consumed by its rage. And yet, she had not turned away from him. She had looked him in the eye unflinchingly, her care and concern almost becoming an assault in itself. He hadn't known what to do with such strength, such determination, such an impossible affection. So he had treated the situation like any other threat; he had fled, because he certainly couldn't fight it.

And yet, as he sat alone in the dilapidated mansion, it occurred to him that neither reaction was necessary. Fight or flight were two choices he'd never have to arrive on with Hawke; in fact, it would be foolish to do so. She wasn't a threat. She wasn't a danger to him. She was bright and beautiful, strong and steady, mercurial. She was passion and depth.

He struggled for the word, the word that would encompass everything that seethed and bloomed between them, furious and yet familiar, violent and beautiful all at once. The wordless thing never waned, never ebbed; it was a constant presence, just beneath the basket of his ribs, the pound of his heart. It made the air still when she spoke and the world alive when she laughed.

It thrilled over his skin and heart in violent bursts, and yet somehow moved in a deeper place as well, slow and primordial. It somehow encompassed the dizzying desire and the more intense attachment, affection. Ardor that seemed to go beyond thoughts and actions and words.

He had recognized it as fully impossible the moment Hadriana had sent Hawke sprawling. The nameless thing had shifted and changed within him, some strange alchemy, twisting into anger and fear. Not at Hadriana directly, but at the threat she posed to Hawke. It had thrilled in his limbs; it had turned the world stark and bright through the force of it. His strange instinct had been to hover over Hawke protectively, snarling.

At that moment, he would have ripped the world asunder if only to keep her safe.

With a sigh, Fenris slowly stood and wandered out into the cool night, automatically threading the streets to the Hanged Man. The irritating silence of the dilapidated mansion had begun to grate on his nerves, raw as an open wound, and so he hurried off to the one place in Kirkwall that was consistently loud. If he couldn't lose himself in silence and solitude, he would lose himself in the constant cacophony of drunkards and other cavorting fools.

He was not disappointed; the Hanged Man was currently enjoying a night of roaring trade. A small group of guardsman clustered around the back of the room, Aveline and Donnic among them; their shouts and cheers were the loudest. In another corner, Isabela played cards with Merrill, the elven blood mage that had followed them back from the Sundermount all those years ago. Fenris felt his eyes narrow in distaste. Perhaps the tavern was a poor choice.

Through the same force of habit, he flagged the bartender down for an ale, passing a few coppers into the man's expectant palm. It was just as cold and tasteless as he'd grown to expect, and yet he found no comfort from the habitual familiarity of it all. In fact, if it was possible, his disquiet deepened.

Fenris frowned, ignoring Isabela's insistent summons and her pouting dismay as he remained at his barside perch. The tavern had truly been a poor choice; he was in no mood to converse. He wanted to disappear in the buffeting waves of noise this tavern was famous for without participating himself. He wanted to be distracted from the inevitable conclusion he felt was so near, looming over him insistently. He drained his ale in one pull and made his way to the door when Varric stopped him.

"Have a drink with me, elf," he said, every bit a demand rather than a request.

"I need to be going," Fenris said, but Varric cut him off.

"Come on, now. One drink and you can get back to your brooding," he said easily, though the humor did not reach his eyes.

Fenris considered the dwarf, his insistence. "Very well," he said. "One drink."

"You're a prince."

Varric ambled to the bar, flagging the bartender for two ales. Fenris accepted his but did not drink, watching the dwarf instead. They stood in heavy silence, watching the goings-on with detached interest. Would he be lucky enough to escape without having to indulge Varric in conversation? Fenris could only hope.

His hopes were for naught. Varric turned to him, his expression searching. "What are you afraid of?"

Fenris was momentarily taken aback by the baldness of the question. "That's an extremely personal thing to ask."

"I think it's a fair question, considering how often you run away."

Fenris narrowed his eyes. "It's none of your business."

"Isn't it? I'll tell you what I'm afraid of if you do the same."

Fenris thought about this. He had no use for such information, but he had to admit, a part of him was somewhat curious. "Very well," he said, gesturing for Varric to go first.

Varric watched the boisterous crows, his expression uncharacteristically somber. Something passed in his eyes –a memory, perhaps- and Fenris realized this was the first time he'd seen the dwarf in such a serious mood. He'd assumed incorrectly that the Varric was just as light-hearted as his stories. "I'm afraid of being forgotten."

Fenris didn't say anything at first. It made a strange kind of sense, considering Varric's proclivity for wild tales. It explained his skill, as well; after a lifetime being hounded by such a fear, Varric had presumably learned to keep it at bay. "Perils of being the second son?" Fenris wondered.

"You got it. We're backups. I can take being ignored, because that's a different barrel of ale altogether. It's passing. But being forgotten, that's a permanent thing. No one will remember that they forgot you, and that's that."

"I truly doubt you'll ever be forgotten, Varric."

"Nice of you to say so."

Fenris shrugged. "I could be wrong."

Varric grinned at this, some of his old enthusiasm peeking through. "And he ruins it." He swiveled around to regard Fenris, his eyes searching. "Do you know what you're afraid of?"

Fenris knew, or at least he thought he did. Disconnected thoughts of Danarius and Hadriana flew through his mind, their unnatural powers and skills that seemed to serve no other purpose aside from destruction, a fleeting presence against the backdrop of regular fear. But as he considered more deeply, he realized he wasn't afraid of them in the sense he once believed. It was the destructive potential they posed on his world, their combined ability to reach out and obliterate everything he'd come to treasure. Hawke's face drifted through his mind, the vivid red of her dress, the bright dance of her eyes. The fear intensified then, shifted and changed.

And he knew. He was afraid of losing her.

"You don't have to tell me," Varric said as comprehension dawned. "Just, don't let your fear get in the way anymore."

Fenris snapped his gaze to Varric's; it was as if he'd already known. "What?"

"You heard me. It's not a good life to be always waiting for the shoe to drop. You have to take what comes. You have to go for things, take risks. Otherwise, you won't really have lived. You know what I'm saying?" Varric said, and Fenris was surprised by his sudden intensity.

And as Fenris contemplated Varric's words, he realized he did. He fought furiously for the freedom he had now, but in his constant guarding and defending he had lost the purpose of it. He wasn't truly free to laugh and enjoy things. He wasn't free to care for and desire. Once he had been afraid that Hawke had become something of his master, but he saw now that wasn't true. It was his fear.

His fear held the lash and drove him forward, his fear denied him of what he wanted and needed and craved. It had twisted, mutated; it no longer protected him but imprisoned him as cruelly as any human lord, and he'd been stupid and powerless to allow it.

"Thank you for the drink," Fenris said, leaving his untouched ale on the bar, pushing out into the freezing night. Varric said something as he left, but Fenris did not hear; he was too intent on the sudden need that had nearly overtaken him.

He would apologize to her, of course. She endured so much of his foolishness as to be considered almost super-human, more of a deity of infinite patience than a woman. He would explain everything that he had done and hope- no, pray that she would accept him as she always did. He needed her acceptance now more than he ever had. The decision came to him so quickly that it was as if he'd always known what would happen, what to do. Tonight, he would throw the yoke of fear from his shoulders and stand before her bare, unguarded. She deserved that much.

Fenris wasn't aware of running through the darkened streets of Hightown, but the next thing he saw was the Amell Estate before him, that familiar door barring his way. He pounded on it furiously, unthinking. It occurred to him belatedly that Hawke and her mother must already be sleeping, but he was too far gone to be properly abashed. His need had overwhelmed propriety.

To his surprise, Hawke was the one to answer the door, and the unexpected sight of her peeking at him through the opening was enough to momentarily derail him. "Hawke?" he asked quickly. "Where is everyone?"

She blinked once, twice, her eyes wide. "Mother is away for a few days. Tantervale, I think. Bodhan and Sandal went with her. Come in," she said, quickly stepping out of his way. He obeyed, pushing through the threshold and into the warmth of the hallway, the accepting glow of the fire. His heart struggled against his ribs.

"Is everything all right?" Hawke asked carefully, slowly taking in his strange mood; her expression shifted to the all too familiar mask of concern.

"Yes. No," he said, pacing. "I don't know." Suddenly, stupidly, he ached for something to write on, some way that he could restrain and organize his frantic thoughts, churning like a storm. Now that he stood here before her, his thoughts shattered into many disjointed pieces, impossible to contain or control. Now that it mattered most, he couldn't speak.

Hawke didn't say anything, patiently waiting for him to clarify without any expectation or demand. He was aware of trembling, fear rippling up his legs, making his hands unsteady and weak. He felt his stomach plunge to the floor as he met her eyes, the achingly beautiful expanse of her gaze. He was aware of desire coiling through him, lacing through his limbs, his entire being, mingled with the nameless approximation of what seared between them, of what drove him to her.

It was that wordless recognition that gave him the words he needed; the most important ones. He took a step closer, and it was as if he'd traversed the world. "I'm afraid," he said, heartened by the steadiness of his voice.

She mirrored his advance. "I know." Always on his terms, never forceful or cruel. Never demanding, only accepting. His resolve strengthened.

"I don't want to be," he admitted; a second, more powerful admission. And this was the crux of everything; he was, but he didn't want to be. He was imprisoned, but he yearned for freedom. He was a lonely sentinel in the world, hollow and fearful, but he yearned for her.

Hawke didn't say anything, weighing his words. They were inches apart now; so close he could feel the warmth of her body on his skin, and it struck him as thrillingly intimate, tantalizing and impossible to resist.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked softly, halting her advance. The possibility seemed to pain her.

"No," he breathed, an immediate answer that startled him. He took another step, so that they were nearly upon one another, no longer two entities. He realized his words were truth; beyond anything now, he trusted her. The shadow of his fear faded in that blaze of recognition, of realization.

Still she waited, though he saw what moved through him mirror perfectly on her face, that beloved topography. Slowly, as if unsure, she reached for him, her hand hovering in the breach between them, seconds away from either decision. They balanced on the edge of that precipice, still waiting, still unsure-

-and they plummeted, entwined.

Her fingers traced the lines of his face, the angles of his jaw and ear, and it was as if her touch was alive; he felt her fingers trail warmth along his skin, traces of light and flame. Her eyes transfixed him, every part of his body thrilling in response, taut as a bowstring.

And suddenly, it was impossible to be apart one moment longer. The space between them registered as acute pain, a separation that was wholly unnatural. He pulled her into his arms, and their kiss was desperate, searing. Her breath hitched against his mouth and he kissed her deeper, seeking, wanting.

The need between them was always painfully present, but after the sudden absence of the usual suppression it became great and terrible and he was prey to it, defenseless. There was no retreat now, no solace, no safety. They struck out into unknown ground, and for the first time in his entire memory Fenris felt no fear. Her hands laced through his hair and traced the angle of his ears, trailing fire over his skin. She moaned, her breath hot on his ear, and he thought he would lose the world.

He felt her hesitate in his arms. She pulled away unwillingly, and her gaze was questioning, beseeching. Both caution and desperation warred over her features, that intimate battleground. The meaning was clear, and he answered her with another kiss, this one more insistent than the last. There was no stopping now. He couldn't. He didn't want to.

She gave in, then. She allowed the desire to make her fierce, warlike. Her hands became demanding along the lines of his body, her lips pulled from him almost more than he could give. With more force than he thought was possible, she shoved him back, slamming him into the wall. Her eyes became sharp; he saw a predator in that gaze.

He answered with fire of his own. He took her face between his two hands, bronze skin to pale, and brought her lips to his fiercely. What was once sweet beyond any knowing became more like fire; it shot through him, thrilling every part, every inch of skin. Thrilling the very blood in his veins.

She pushed him back then, slamming him into the wall again, and he saw her lips quirk; she enjoyed this, finally being able to demand of him. Her hair was mused, her eyes shining; a fathomless depth. "Come with me," she whispered.

She took his hand in hers, pulling him upstairs, a realm he'd never seen but feverishly imagined. Her room was bright with a roaring fire, and the bedcovers were mused from sleep, a sight that struck him as thrilling and yet terrifying. Suddenly, the blaze of courage he'd known for a few brief moments waned in the face of the startling and unknown.

And yet it surprised him to realize that despite being afraid, he did not want to run away.

Hawke seemed to sense the change in him for she took his lips sweetly, lightly. She planted kisses along the line of his neck and his arms wrapped around her automatically, running up the curves of her, what he'd seen and wanted for so long and yet never dared to touch. He groaned and the sound seemed to encourage her; he saw a flash of that chip-toothed grin he'd adored from nearly the first moment he saw her.

He traced the curve of her lips with one finger, watching it pull up under his hands. Maker, she was so soft, and so smooth. Every inch of her was perfectly made; he wondered if he'd ever be able to keep from touching her again. He wondered dimly what he'd done to be worthy of her.

With nimble fingers, she slowly undid the buckles of his armor, and he stiffened defensively, an automatic reaction from what seemed to be many years and miles away. Her eyes lifted to his, and the question was plain. He nearly lost control at that exact moment; that she cared enough to stop, to wait, to be sure of his own need was tender beyond all imagining. His answer was to slip his hands beneath her robe, sliding them over bare skin, thrilling at the unexpected pleasure of it.

The smile shifted, became coy. She pulled his leather jerkin off over his head and flung it across the room, where it landed with a muffled sound, startlingly loud in the deafening quiet. He undid the belt of her robe with deliberate slowness, attempting to master the trembling of his hands. How many nights had he dreamed of what lay underneath? How many times had he wondered at how her bare skin would feel under his hands, under his mouth?

He shuddered as her cool fingers played with the clasp of his belt; equal parts fear and desire. They trailed over the angles of his hip bones, and with a decisive motion she pushed his leggings away, leaving him bare; wonderfully, terrifyingly naked.

Even here, apart from the world, he could not escape the painful master of memory, twined with corrupted instinct. He felt himself automatically pull away, as if seeking to find cover or protection from the inevitable onslaught, the punishments he'd learned to expect and anticipate. But she didn't give up; in fact, somehow she expected his fear, anticipated it. Carefully, she placed her warm hands on either side of his face. Her eyes overflowed, and despite his first instinct, he felt the fear fade in the face of her protection, her intimate care. He felt himself become brave under her hands.

He swallowed hard as her audacious fingers trailed lower and lower, and it was sudden and painful how desperately he ached for her touch. She traced over his skin on the tips of her fingers, sending shivers of painful anticipation up his spine. But she quickly reversed, sliding her hands up his stomach, over his chest. He groaned at the sight of her toying smile, a harsh sound that stretched her grin wider.

Pulling her closer, he pulled the robe from her shoulders with such force that he heard the fabric tear. He watched it slowly fall away, leaving nothing but pure skin. The air grew thick as his eyes travelled over her body; he was suddenly impossibly ravenous, and he couldn't imagine a time or place when he'd be sated again. She was beyond beautiful; every part of her was softness. Here, the curve of her breast, the planes of her belly and thighs, the inexorable pull south.

The need was suddenly impossible to bear; it nearly drove him mad. With a rough groan, he pushed her to the bed, watching her hair splay around her face, framing her smile, her wide, wanting eyes. He took her lips with violence he hadn't known he felt as he framed her face in his hands, poised taut as a bowstring over her.

But Hawke wasn't to be outdone. With a grunt, she hooked her leg around his waist and threw her weight into his, pinning him beneath her. He stared up at her, slightly out of breath as she laughed above him, at his incredulity and need. He slid his hands over her thighs, pulling, grasping, willing her to take him, but she grabbed his wrists with a motion that managed to be teasing and forceful all at once.

"No, you don't," she breathed, her smile wide. "Not yet."

"Hawke . . ."

She put a finger to his lips. With aching tenderness, she hovered over him, trailed her fingers over every inch of his skin, following the line of the lyrium markings. He flinched, somehow still expecting the pleasure to fade into the pain he'd known all his life, the pain that haunted him still, but it never came. She was patient even in her want, and part of him knew she enjoyed stringing him along, driving him out of his skin.

She trailed kisses over the patterns of his markings, inching lower over the planes of his stomach, outlining each of his hips. Her hands slid over him with deliberate slowness; it was as if she were a supplicant paying worship to a god, such was the joy in which she touched him. And just as he thought he would moan from the dizzying need of wanting her even lower, she veered away, tracing the outline of the markings on his left thigh.

His growl of frustration made her laugh; he watched her breasts tremble in the flickering firelight. "So impatient," she whispered, hunched over his groin, her breath warming his erection. Her lips hovered just over the tip as her hands slid slowly up, and he felt faint. The world shivered and trembled with him.

He could take no more. With a rough groan of need, he pulled her up to his lips and pinned her beneath him in one smooth motion, every muscle tensed and engaged, screaming for blessed relief. She looked up at him, eyes wide, half a smile still teasing at her lips, and he kissed her desperately, as if suddenly afraid this would disappear. As if afraid morning would come and leave no trace.

"Are you afraid?" she asked.

"No," he whispered, breathing in the smell of her hair, her skin, a worshipful supplicant all his own. "Yes."

Her smile was tender. "It's all right. I won't hurt you."

"Marian . . ." he breathed. It was as if every inch of his body had become a powerful confirmation of the words he could not find, and so he could only say her name, taste it as he'd never been able to, hold it tightly. "Marian . . ."

She kissed him deeply, taking him in her hands and guiding him gently, and when he finally plunged into her, they both cried out, he muffled by the sweetness of her hair and she pressed into the plane of his shoulder.

He lost the world. Everything he'd known before this moment passed away to some distant place, unreachable and remote. There was only the feel of her bare skin pressed against his own, the feel of her hands sliding up his back, grasping as he moved into her. Her moans filled him, the curve of her lips, the soft flesh of her breasts. It was more beauty than he'd ever thought to know, more pleasure than he ever believed could have existed. Time stretched in the hesitation of a held breath, before stopping completely. He kissed her desperately as they moved, unable to articulate the depth of what he felt in any other way. And when he came, crying out into the smooth flesh of her neck, he felt her cling to him as if she could not bear for them to be cloven in two once again.

He was aware of the heat of the fire on his skin, her hands gliding up the broadness of his back as he pulled away to watch her face. She smiled and he saw that her eyes were bright, her lips swollen from the searing kisses they'd shared. He watched her eyes, those fathomless depths overwhelmed with the force of what he felt mirrored within him.

They didn't speak, but her expression was all the response he needed. She pulled him back down into her arms, and he felt her tremble from the force of it, the unspoken words echoing between them sweetly as a plucked string, reverberating ever outward.

And as they drifted, entwined, he realized love had been the word he searched for. Love encompassed all that was between them.

**AN2: I haven't written a sex scene in ages. Urk. Be gentle? **


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Special thanks to my reviewers: BiasedRaincloud, Allie, Torilund Archer, Tikitorch559, Lorrain, Blackheart214, Revras, ZoraAngel, Jedi Kacee, CreatedInFyre7, TanukiKyuubi, kalivon, Crystal Night, R2s Muse, and ChaoticByDesign, and to everyone else who read, faved and followed. **

**I put off this chapter for obvious reasons- this part is my last favorite in the whole story. I've changed the scene from canon a bit; it makes the whole plotline more palatable for me to write, and I hope you all enjoy it more too. **

**When Fenris is overcome by his memories, I borrowed heavily from my other story, 'The Lyrium Warrior'. Please read if you're curious!  
**

**I love hearing what you all think, so leave me a review if you're so inspired. Thanks for reading everyone and enjoy!**

For as long as he'd known, Fenris was driven. Hounded, even. There was always some force pushing him forward through life; whether the expectation and cruelty of Danarius or the master of fear he'd come to recognize in himself. There wasn't a time where he wasn't compelled to forge ahead, to hide and defend. To move along.

It came as a surprise to notice the absence of that compulsive drive forward. The background noise of stress and worry so common in himself had been completely silenced. He was only aware of Hawke, the way she curled into him, her face pressed into his chest. Their breathing had fallen into perfect time; rising and falling in total synchronicity.

He couldn't stop touching her. He slid his hands up her arms, pushing a lock of her hair out of her face. He traced the curve of her lips with his fingers, delighting in the softness of them, the vivid red stark against the pale flesh of her cheek. He watched her smile, and more than anything he wished he could live in the space between her breasts, listening to the subtle music of her heartbeat.

"Say something," she commanded him, but he heard the smile in her voice.

"You're beautiful," was the first thing he thought to say. He might have been ashamed to admit that so baldly before, but everything between them had been stripped away. They were bare, flesh and spirit alike.

"I knew you were a flatterer."

"I only speak the truth," he promised devoutly, trailing a finger over the curve of her breast.

"What you perceive as the truth, anyway."

"Give me some credit."

She smiled. "All right. You _think _I'm beautiful," she teased. "What else?"

"I can't stop touching you," he whispered, astounded by his own boldness. It was as if she had changed him, as if their lovemaking had altered his very character in some strange alchemy.

"I don't want you to stop touching me." She slid her hand up his chest, trailing the patterns of lyrium with tenderness he'd never known before. "I have a theory."

"Hmm?"

Her brow furrowed and she traced the patterns with more concentration. "We all need to be touched in some way. Some need it differently than others. You've gone your whole life without it, so all this need has built up. You have to make up for a lifetime of wanting and not having now."

It felt like the truth to him, especially considering the diminished presence of fear. "Makes sense."

She suddenly smiled again, a devious thing. "I'm happy to oblige you your needs."

"Be careful of what you promise," he warned her.

She rolled over, pinning him. "Am I supposed to be afraid of you?" she taunted. "Of being kept prisoner, subject to your whims and desires?"

"Anyone with half a mind would," he retorted, grinning.

"Thank the Maker I've more than that, then," she replied, swooping down to kiss him.

The novelty of kissing was still so acute that every time she brought her lips to his, he momentarily lost the world, only aware of the thrilling sensation of her skin against his, the smoky scent of her hair filling him. He felt her laugh against his lips, and he threaded his hand through that thick curtain of hair, holding her closer.

When she finally pulled away, he reached for her again, unwilling to be separated for even a few moments. But she only laughed, shook her head, kissed his fingertips with absurd tenderness. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know."

"What nonsense."

"It's true!" she said indignantly, though her lips twitched.

He shook his head, frowning as he mulled over the old colloquialism, turning it about in his thoughts. What he'd realized between them had thrown the world into stark relief; things he'd always taken for truth suddenly showed themselves to be charming lies, little more than meaningless incantations. "It isn't."

"Care to explain your ironclad logic?"

His gaze flashed to hers, that familiar insouciant curve of her lips. "If, for whatever reason, two people were separated, and during the course of this separation their esteem for one another increased, you could stand to reason that what they feel is the desire to possess. As if the other is something to be sought and won."

"Why is that?"

He gestured impatiently. "Why would whatever they felt only increase in separation? Shouldn't they increase because of the person themself and not the lack of them?"

"So how would you explain it, then?"

"If we were separated, my feelings for you wouldn't increase," he said. "They couldn't; there'd be no room for them to grow. But I'd become more aware of them, so that being apart would only register as pain."'

She slid her hands up his chest, trailing patterns. "Have I told you lately that you're an insufferable pedant?"

"Insufferable?" Fenris asked as he leaned closer, kissing her jaw. "Really?"

"Yes," she managed as he trailed the kisses along the line of her neck. "Positively unbearable."

"I'll endeavor to exist with less offense," he whispered into her hair, and she shivered.

She only laughed, a breathy sound, and he delighted in the warmth of it.

They drifted, entwined. Time slowed, and Fenris felt a vague feeling of triumph. Wasn't it that time slowed only when you were miserable, and increased when you were content? Whatever echoed between he and Hawke had conquered even the fickle nature of passing time, so that it bent to their combined will.

He lost himself and the cares that normally pushed him forward in life. He memorized the subtle music of her heartbeat, the way it thudded against the basket of her ribs. He committed the feel of her skin against his to his memory, so that even should he live for another hundred years, he'd never lose it. It would always stay as present as it was now.

She laughed against, softly this time, and he craned to look down at her. "What's so funny?"

"I'm just wondering what drove you here in the first place. Were you planning on sweeping me off my feet?"

"I don't seem to remember it happening like that," he said, amused.

"Details," she dismissed airily.

He grinned. "I'd intended to apologize."

"For?"

"For losing my temper with you, of course," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You tolerate so much of my poor behavior; the least I could do was apologize for it."

She traced the angle of his ear. "You're far too hard on yourself."

"I don't think so," he said, the grin slowly fading.

"Of course you don't." Her voice could have been sarcastic in another place; here, entwined as they were, it sounded only tired.

He looked down at her, the mused crown of her hair obscuring full view of her face. "How is it you don't think I'd done anything wrong? I was terrible. I killed a woman in cold blood and took my temper out on you."

Hawke frowned. "It's not like you didn't have a reason to be upset, Fenris. It would be different if you'd just lost your temper for no reason."

"Would it really have made a difference? The reason doesn't really matter; the action itself does," he insisted stubbornly.

"So it's the principle of the thing?"

"Yes," Fenris said. "Exactly."

Hawke let out a frustrated breath. "You're so determined to punish yourself."

"And?"

She pulled herself out of his arms with more force that he expected and fixed him with a fierce stare, one that nearly froze him in surprise. "I don't like it," she said.

He refused to let himself be cowed. "You don't think perhaps I deserve to be hard on myself?"

"You don't," she said firmly.

"Even when I'm awful to you? Even when I do terrible things?" His tone twisted with the force of his incredulity.

She let out a terse breath. "I'm not saying you shouldn't feel sorry," she said. "I'm saying you should give yourself more credit. The way I see it, you had understandable reasons to do what you did, react how you did. I won't hold those against you, and you shouldn't either."

He didn't respond immediately, mulling over her words. It was instinct to be harsh and critical on himself most of all, conditioned from years of exacting servitude. He'd thought very little of it, for in most cases it kept him separate, careful. Alive. Yet now, looking into Hawke's eyes, he realized how such a thing would affect her. Hawke, who inexplicably seemed to care for him despite everything. In that light, his behavior could almost be construed as an insult.

He felt oddly guilty then. "I'll make an effort," he said, and it surprised him to hear the earnestness in his tone.

"That's all I can ask, really," Hawke said, a trace of a grin on her lips, and she folded herself into his arms again.

They lapsed into thoughtful silence, though they could not stay still. Their hands roved over one another, exploring, discovering. It was as if after years of watching and wanting, they could not contain the desire to hold, to possess, to know. Fenris dimly wondered how they would enter the world again after this night, how they would contain the sudden and impossible force of desire that consumed all other thought.

The idea of staying here was pleasant, curled into one another. Nothing but idle fantasy, for he knew just as well as she that the world would not stop for either of them, that the endless litany of expectations Hawke endured would not suddenly disappear because of what they'd discovered, but it was pleasant to indulge the thought, for a few moments at least.

He knew it was foolish, but part of him almost believed that the world outside the high windows was far away, many miles of barren landscape and difficult trail. He idly toyed with the idea of being completely separate from what waited for them in the morning, as if to dress and leave was to traverse the distance that protected them. He hated magic and hated mages even more, but a very small part of him considered what he would do to have the power to alter time, so that moment of waking would never come.

"Now what are you thinking?" Hawke said, her expression amused.

"Nothing of note," he hedged.

"I very much doubt that," she said, grinning, tracing her finger up the lyrium line of his bicep.

"Why is that?"

"You're never thinking nothing," she explained, still smiling. "Your thoughts play on your face like the pages of a book."

"So you can read them just as easily?" he asked, feeling his lips twitch.

"Indeed."

"Why even ask if you already know the answer then?"

"Oh, you know," she said airily. "I love giving you the chance at honesty."

"Perhaps you don't know everything after all."

She delighted him by bursting into laughter; he felt her tremble with it in his arms, and he restrained the urge to hold her even closer. "Smartass."

"What?" he said, feigning innocence.

"You know what, you snipe," she said, still laughing. "Don't play at the innocent; you're not adorable enough to pull it off."

"Aren't I?" Fenris asked her, amused. "Wasn't it you who said I have kitten-eyes?"

"Puppy-eyes," she corrected. "And I change my mind; you don't."

"You can't have it both ways."

"Yes, I can," she argued. "I'm a woman. I get it any way I want."

Her tone veered into the suggestive, and he felt himself responding almost instantly. "And how do you want it now?" he asked, hearing the lusty growl in his voice almost from far away.

Her smile was coy, devious. "When I least expect," she said, her lips only inches away from his. He made to close the distance between them but she dodged him, her lips quirking tauntingly.

"As you like," he said, allowing her to pull away though the act itself registered as pain. The space between them gaped like a wound.

She paused, suspended over him as if held by strings. The muscles in her thighs banded, juxtaposing off the smooth skin of her hips, her stomach. Her breasts. He suppressed the sudden and intense urge to pull her to him again, to run his needing hands over her, desperate to have, to possess. To share.

"Let's play a game," she said suddenly, before he could act on his desire.

"What kind of game?" he asked, wary.

"Nothing terrible," she assured him. "Lie on your stomach."

He obeyed, though not before shooting her a reproachful look. "As you command," he said, twisting his tone pathetically.

"Oh, don't be put out. You'll like this," she said. "And if you don't, we'll do what you want, I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," he warned.

"No doubt," she said, pulling herself close so that they nearly touched before leaning over him. It occurred to him too late to warn her of what she would find on the bare skin of his back, and before he could speak he heard her take in a quick, surprised breath. One finger traced where he knew there to be a deep scar.

"How did this happen?" she asked, her voice oddly quiet.

"Most of those I'd received before I lost my memory," he explained. "I assume I'd earned them the same way most slaves had."

"And the rest?"

"Danarius avoided beating me when he could," Fenris explained, feeling almost resentful that even here, in the most intimate moment he'd ever known, he couldn't escape the forceful touch of his master, even if it was only an echo. "My worth was solely in the condition of my body and my skill, and Danarius avoided jeopardizing that. But, there were times when being denied my meals and sleep was no longer sufficient."

Hawke didn't say anything immediately, her fingers hovering over the scarred flesh of his back, almost tentative. He craned around to look at her, and it surprised him to see her eyes narrowed in anger. Indeed, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such bald fury on her face. Hawke responded to most situations with easy sarcasm, even the difficult ones.

"Hawke?" he asked carefully.

"I hate him," she said softly. "Danarius, I mean. I hate that everywhere I look, anywhere I touch I see evidence of the damage he inflicted on you."

Fenris couldn't respond at once; the ferocity of her reaction stunned him. He'd hated Danarius for so many years that it had become a constant fixture in his thoughts, a touchstone. The cause and effect of most of his actions. It was strange to see that anger reflected in another. It surprised him to realize it upset him.

"I'm sorry," was all he could think to say.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Fenris," she said, her eyes snapping with temper. "When you apologize, all I see now are the years of conditioning that turned those words into instinct. When you flinch, I see the things Danarius did to make it so. When you run away and wonder why, I see Danarius and what he did as the answer. Of course I hate him," she said forcefully.

"Why?" he asked before he could stop himself, unable to check the incredulity in his voice.

"You know why," she said pointedly, and though he longed to press her, he realized she was right. He did know. He did understand. He'd felt a similar blood-fueled rage when anything hurt or threatened Hawke. Not only at the thought of losing her, but the thought that something in this world had caused her pain.

"I'm sorry," she said after a moment of silence. "We were having a nice time until I ruined it."

"You haven't ruined anything, Hawke," he said tenderly, and he was suddenly eager to see her smile again. He would have danced with blood mages and abominations if only to hear her laugh. "Here, now; didn't you have a game to show me?"

And to his delight, she did smile. "I did, didn't I? Turn back around," she instructed, and he did as she asked, eager to distract her from her anger, though some part of him thrilled it had been on his behalf.

He felt her finger trace along his back, and he nearly sighed from the pleasure of it. It was still so new to be touched in a way that was pleasurable instead of painful, and yet enough time had passed that any time Hawke reached for him, he knew not to flinch away, for he trusted her. It occurred to him belatedly that he'd never truly trusted someone in such a way, not even Tan of the Fog Warriors. It was a heady realization.

"Now," she said, her voice startling him. "What letter was that?"

"You were shaping a letter?" he asked incredulously.

She sighed. "Pay attention," she scolded, though he heard good humor in her voice.

This time he was careful to note the movements of her finger, careful to note the shapes she made in his skin. As he concentrated, her finger moved into the shape of an 'M'.

"What letter?" she asked again.

"M," he answered promptly.

"Yes," she said, pleased, swooping down to kiss his shoulder. "And the next?" she asked as her finger traced another letter.

"A," he answered again.

She had traced an 'R' and begun tracing the 'I' when he stopped her. "Marian," he said, stifling laughter.

"Aren't you smart," she said, trying desperately not to laugh. "Next word."

She quickly traced the word 'AND' before moving on, tracing the letters 'F', 'E', and 'N' with bold, dramatic strokes. "Marian and Fenris," he said, and though he laughed a part of him was touched, thrilled. Their names together on the parchment of his flesh made it all the more permanent, as unchangeable as the features of the world.

"Very good," she said, laughing.

"'Marian and Fenris' what?" he asked after she made no move to trace more words.

"Does there need to be a what? Perhaps we can simply 'be'," she said, kissing his shoulder softly.

It was a beautiful thought, one he gathered close, committing firmly to memory. She was right. There was no need to elaborate further with weak action, gaudy displays of possession. They simply were now; united, a unified subject. Together.

He'd spent so much of his life and energy guarding against what he felt, but he could not bring himself to stop now. What was there to guard against? He and Hawke understood one another, and the kind of understanding they shared was one people could go their entire lives without knowing. Trust, he thought again. Affection. Care. Love. It wasn't a detriment, but a strength.

Fenris pulled her back down into his arms and she relented, wrapping herself around him as if she never wanted to be separated again. Her lips found his and he lost himself in her kiss, a world apart. He lost himself in her, in the realization, in the affirmation of everything between them now.

After they were spent they fell into easy sleep, and it struck Fenris how natural it was to lose himself to dreams with her firmly in his arms, as if they'd been made specifically for one another, and whatever suffering he'd known was only the result of being forced apart.

* * *

Many hours passed, and for the first time in his memory, Fenris dreamed, impossibly vivid dreams that chased themselves through the placid calm of his sleep, leaving ripples. There was no controlling a dream, and he was powerless to keep from being borne along in its merciless wake.

The dreams shifted and changed. He saw faces he knew, heard voices he'd heard in some other life. Their words held the unfamiliar sensation of memory, haunting and nagging him. Somehow, he'd seen their faces before, heard their voices in the days he'd never known belonged to him.

Their voices joined together in a furious storm; the places he'd known blurring into one harried scene. He lurched away, his heart pounding a furious beat in the vicinity of his throat, and he threw himself at the walls of this dream, struggling to be free. He hurled himself down-

-and in the next moment, his eyes flew open. His heart pounded just as horribly as it had in the dream, and a fine, cold sweat laced his brow. He blinked once, twice, and yet the horror did not leave him. Those faces he knew, they did not fade.

The memories remained.

* * *

_There was no body to bury. One day, Father had gone to the docks and never returned. They held a service for him, but Leto did not cry. He was seven now, and too old to cry. He had to be strong for his family. While the adults comforted his mother, he went outside, to play in the mud. _

_The boys found him them, eager for an outlet for their own angers and inadequacies. They threw rocks at him and taunted cruelly, eager for a fight. And though there were four of them and only one of Leto, he threw himself at them. _

_They had not expected the ferocity in which Leto would retaliate. He had flown at them, snarling like a mad dog. He kicked and bit and rolled out of the way of their advances. He punched and scratched and howled the force of his rage; rage at the world, at the magisters, at these foolish boys who attacked him._

_Oter had come upon them then, yelling for Leto to stop, for somehow this tiny child of seven had nearly defeated his four teenaged attackers. Oter snapped at the older boys to leave, but he turned his gaze on Leto, his bloody face and hands, his mussed hair, his wild eyes._

_"You are a mad wolf," Oter had said. "Waiting for a chance to bite."_

_Leto felt a smug sort of pride at the elder's words, but Oter shook his head. "It is not praise, my young wolf cub. Mad wolves know only their rage, and eventually it will defeat them."_

_"Not me," Leto had said._

_At this, Oter had smiled, though it was a rueful thing. "How little you know. There is a small kind of freedom in being young and stupid."_

_Leto drew back in an indignant hiss, but before he could protest, Oter continued on. "If ever you decide you want to be more than a mad wolf cub, come to me. There are some things I might be able to teach you."_

* * *

_He was ten, with bloodied hands. Oter stood before him, arms crossed over his chest._

_"What did you learn?" he asked, that familiar sarcastic grin turning his features._

_"Not to let my temper get away with me," Leto said sullenly, wiping his hands on his trousers._

_"Your temper can either serve you," Oter explained, kicking Leto's sword toward him, "or you will serve it."_

* * *

_He was thirteen, watching his mother bob in and out of his blurred vision. He was sick with the cholera, and they'd all told her he would die. She refused to let him, though. She'd been a slave nearly all her life, dutiful and meek, but in the face of her only son's illness, she became fierce as he'd never seen her. Determined. She became a warrior._

_She tipped a mug of tea down his throat, and though his stomach roiled at burned at it, he kept it down through sheer force of will, for her sake if nothing else._

_She did not cry. She told him stories, and he heard her singing in his dreams. _

* * *

_He stood before Quendius, his lips mashed together against the angry words. He was older now, and he knew how to control his temper. He knew how to swallow the words he longed to hurl out at the world. _

_"Yes, Master," he said._

* * *

_His mother lay before him, the bones of her face cut in sharp relief. The circles under her eyes resembled bruises. Her breath rattled in her chest and she raised a claw like hand there, as if to catch the rapid beating of her heart._

_"She has the wasting," Pal said in his ear, though Leto hardly heard him. _

_"What can I do?" he asked desperately, taking those skeletal hands in his own._

_"There is little anyone can do now," Pal said. "Only a magister would be of any help, and they won't bother for an old slave."_

* * *

_"Do you see that paper there?"_

_Leto regarded it cursorily. "I can't read."_

_"Neither can I. I think sometimes our fool masters forget we're fool slaves with only as many skills as they deign us worthy to have." Oter grinned. "The man who posted it told me what it said though. Today in the hour past midday there is to be a grand announcement to all the slaves of this compound."_

_He had heard of this already; one of the overseers had barked that the slaves were to meet in the foyer after the midday meal. "What about?" Leto asked._

_"There is to be a competition between slaves for a great honor."_

_Honor for slaves? Leto was instantly suspicious. "Sounds like just another one of their stupid games."_

_Oter chuckled. "Who taught you to be so skeptical?"_

_"You did!"_

_"Oh, that's right. I did, didn't I? What a wonderful student you were."_

_Despite everything, Leto grinned. "I was taught by the best."_

_"Yes, yes, you know how to butter up an old man. Anyways, it does seem like one of their stupid games, but I can tell you it's not."_

_"How?"_

_"Because the Lyrium Warrior is not a joke, boy."_

_The name meant little to Leto, but he could tell it was something of great importance just by the tone of Oter's voice. It spoke of awe . . . and fear._

_"What is Lyrium Warrior?" he asked, his voice suddenly more reverent._

_Oter leaned back in his chair, crossing his wiry arms across his thin chest. "It's a legend, boy. In the days of the Imperium when it was at its fullest in might, it was said that there was a legion of warriors marked by the lifeblood of magic itself; lyrium. They knew no equal, and in the name of the Imperium they conquered many."_

_Leto was stunned. "This competition is to become a Lyrium warrior?"_

_"Yes."_

_Leto didn't say anything for a moment. "What use is such a competition to me?" he said finally. "What use would winning it be to my family?"_

* * *

_"In addition to the unimaginable honor of serving the Imperium as a Lyrium Warrior, the winner of this tournament will be granted a boon of his choosing," the official said, his voice echoing out through the compound. "Anything the Lyrium Warrior asks of the Imperium, it will be granted, for we honor the Lyrium Warrior as a living legend, despite his status as a slave."_

_Leto felt his eyes go wide. A boon . . . any boon! It was as if the Maker had stretched down his hand to Leto and set him on the path. If this was no joke, and Oter had stressed that it was not, if he won he could ask anything of the Imperium. He could ask for the freedom of his family and the money they would need to cure his mother of the wasting. He decided in that instant._

_"If you believe you are of sound skill and body to compete, offer yourself now in the service of your master and the Imperium."_

_No one moved; most of the slaves in Quendius's service were not fighters, save for perhaps his bodyguards. They were half starved and long since cowed into fear. But it was not fear that surged through Leto's heart now, but a sense of purpose fueled by a furious burst of adrenaline. He carefully detached himself from his mother's wild grasp and moved through the crowd, which parted easily for him. He came to a stop in the front of it and fell to his knees, bowing his head in supplication._

_"I offer myself," he said, averting his eyes but speaking loud enough to be heard by all. "I offer myself in the name of my master and for the glory of the Imperium."_

* * *

_The confidence -that foolish sense of purpose- did not last long. _

_"I've never killed anyone," he whispered in horror. "I can't do it."_

_"You will if you want to survive, boy." Oter's voice had become hard as a diamond's edge._

_"I'm not a murderer!" Leto said hotly._

_Oter sighed, and for half an instant his eyes were very far away. "We're all murders, Leto. All of us."_

_"What do you mean?" Leto asked, shocked by Oter's sudden change in demeanor._

_"Whether we kill another man or something he loves, we're all murderers. You can't exist without destroying something."_

_It was the most fatalistic thing Leto had ever heard. "I don't believe that," he said stubbornly._

* * *

_He felt the brightness of the sun on his skin, burning like an open flame. The chain mail hung absurdly off him, and the unfamiliar weapon was awkward in his hands. He'd known daggers and longswords all his life, through every moment of Oter's training. He'd never known a greatsword; this huge, unwieldy weapon that was nearly as tall as he was._

_The boy stared back at the opposite end of the field, and Leto saw only his wide eyes, the wounds on his face stark in the bare light of the sun. He trembled._

_"FIGHT!" the crowd screamed, and they did. The boy was awkward and unskilled, easily disarmed with a pommel strike, despite Leto's own lack of skill with his weapon. He hovered over the boy, hesitated-_

_-and lay flat on his back in the next instant. The boy had used Leto's pity against him, just as Oter had warned. The world became an open flame itself, burning under the force of his rage, the pain of betrayal. _

_His blade sunk into the basket of the boy's chest with a resounding finality._

* * *

_Danarius laughed. "Allow me to heal you," he offered, as if he was giving Leto the opportunity to turn him down._

_"If it pleases you, master," he said promptly. He was wise to these games, to the illusion of choice. There was no choice for him, a lowly slave. It never mattered what he wanted. He turned the wounded side of his face toward Danarius, not daring to meet the magister's gaze._

_Warmth brushed his face and he felt the spell knitting his torn flesh, erasing the pain as it flooded through him. It was surprisingly pleasant; he had subconsciously braced himself for punishment, for in his experience a master often said one thing before doing another._

_Surprised, he touched his face where the wound was, shocked to discover that there was no wound, not even a scar. "Good as new," Danarius said, beaming pleasantly._

_"Thank you, master," Leto said quickly, watching his feet._

_"It was my pleasure," Danarius said. "As it is my pleasure to watch you fight. You are exceptionally talented."_

_"Thank you, master."_

_Danarius said no more, though he did not leave immediately. His gaze pierced into Leto, searching the planes of his face intently, and Leto felt himself holding his breath. Despite no appearances to the contrary, this man frightened him more than anything he'd known in his life; there was something malignant about his smiling face. There was something even more terrifying in an open hand than a closed fist._

* * *

_Leto felt nothing when he defeated the last of the slaves pitted against him. The crowd cheered for him by name now, or at least the name he had been given. He passed into Danarius's service without any further fanfare or preamble, and when asked of the boon, it took him a moment to remember why he had chosen to do this._

_"I want my family freed," he said dully, and it was so._

* * *

_"He is a criminal, Fenris," Danarius said. "It would please me if you ended his life."_

_And Fenris obeyed. _

* * *

Fenris leapt from the bed before he was completely aware of doing so, raising the claw of his hand to his racing heart. The memories swirled through his vision, the faces he'd known, the voices. Their names, his own name! Leto, Le- Levo? His name faded before he could grasp it and hold it close, and slowly the memories faded as well.

All but one. The worst one. The very apex of his crimes.

He'd had every reason to keep himself alone and yet all this time he'd had it wrong. He shouldn't stay away because of the danger they posed to him, but because of the danger he was himself. Because of the things he did with his own hands. Because of the things he forgot, things that could be turned against him like a weapon.

Fenris watched Hawke, still curled around the place he'd slept. How could he promise that he wouldn't forget Hawke and then destroy her? He'd done it many times before, as easily as anything. There was guilt, yes. There was horror. But it never stopped him; it only came to him after those he cared about lay broken at his feet.

The thought filled him with more horrified terror than he'd ever known in his life. Not that Hawke would find her end at Danarius's hands; he could have protected her in such an event. But that he could so easily be touched and turned, compelled to be nothing more than a weapon. That he could plunge his ghost-like hands into her chest and crush her heart.

No! No. He clenched his shaking hands into violent fists, suddenly horribly certain of what he had to do. He was a weapon; he was scarred and tainted under Danarius's hands, a true instrument of his will. And there was no freedom from such a thing; there never would be. The only course of action was to leave.

That was a painful thought too, but Fenris chose the lesser of two pains. And though it was akin to having his own heart ripped from his chest, he knew it would be worse to lose her altogether. To be the reason for her loss.

He dressed quickly despite his violently shaking hands. He heard her stir behind him, but he did not turn. Shame boiled fiercely in his stomach, and his hands trembled so badly that for a moment he couldn't fasten the last buckle of his armor. Her confusion and dismay assaulted him.

"Fenris?" he heard Hawke say, as though from many miles away. "What are you doing?"

He knew what had to be said. He knew the truth wouldn't turn her away; she'd get to her feet and stand beside him. She wouldn't care one whit for the danger he posed to her. She'd comfort him, assuage his guilt and fear, and he'd allow it. He already knew himself to be powerless against the beautiful things she said, against the force of her care. And should Danarius return, he'd be bent to his will just as easily as before, unable to stop himself until she lay broken at his feet. He would not allow that.

So he lied. "I can't do this," he said in a voice that was not his own.

She didn't cry, and he saw no evidence of temper in her expression. It broke his heart to realize a part of her had expected him to run away. Why shouldn't she? It was what he was best at.

"So you're ending it," she said, a bald statement. Her voice was devoid of inflection, though her lip trembled. He felt his resolve waver.

He didn't want to end it. He wanted to stay, to curl his body around hers, to tell her a thousand times that he loved her more than he'd realized he could, more than he'd known was possible. It was no comfort to remind himself that he did this because he loved her, but it steeled his resolve.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," he said, and his voice shook.

She didn't speak, and he turned away from her before the dawning pain in her eyes could defeat him utterly, before it destroyed them both. He turned and strode away, fighting himself at every step, hating himself more than he'd ever hated anything in his life. More than mages. More than Danarius. It stunned him to realize such a thing was possible.

He turned from her and did not look back.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Thank you so much to aoisenshi, Sepsis, MrsDarcy14, Kainen-no-Kitsune, Mina, Torilund Archer, Ryoko Metallium, freshneverfrozen, Mushroomed, Happy Little Cupcake, ZoraAngel, NoMadKa, TanukiKyuubi, CreatedInFyre7, DKAllayna, R2s Muse, Biased Raincloud, and Jedi Kacee for your fantastic, lovely reviews, and to everyone else who faved and followed.**

**First let me apologize for such a long break. I don't really have a good reason except that real life happened and got in the way of my writing, but as of now I think I have things sorted well enough to get on a regular schedule again. I hope most of you have stayed tuned!**

**Also, augh this chapter. Maybe a little part of me was avoiding this chapter. I'm not too proud to admit this scene always makes me cry in the game. **

**As always, I love hearing back from you, so if you feel so inclined, please leave me a review and let me know what you thought. Thanks all and I hope you enjoy!**

Fenris didn't see Hawke for days.

Their separation had become as painful as any wound he'd ever suffered, and despite everything it was a constant struggle to maintain his distance. The dilapidated mansion had become a prison, the walls pressing inward. He ached in a way he hadn't believed possible; every breath he took was as painful as a knife through his ribs.

And yet, he did not seek her out. How could he, knowing what he was? He saw terrible visions of her broken body in every dark corner. She haunted his dreams, her specter suspended as if by marionette strings. His fear twisted into something completely new, something even more potent than he'd ever known; fear for another. Fear _of_ himself.

He hated himself more than he'd hated anything. All this time he'd believed Danarius was at fault for his failures and crimes, for his inability to function normally in the world. But Danarius had never taken control of his mind; he'd murdered totally of his own will, regardless of personal attachment. He feared and hated that twisted part of himself more than he'd known it was possible to hate.

Perhaps one day he could defeat that instinct, the compulsion to sink into the lyrium and his anger. At first he clung to the idea the way a wretch clings to bread, holding them close as precious things. But as the days passed into darkness, he knew it was reaching. Foolish and impossible.

Even if it wasn't, he refused to take the chance. Hawke dead at his hands was something he'd never allow to happen, as much for himself as it was for her. It was because he loved her that he exiled himself now.

The love was a difficult thing to wrestle into submission, he found. Every few minutes, he'd start toward his door with a half-formed vision of begging for her forgiveness, taking her back into his arms, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to hold himself still, suspended stupidly in the middle of the mansion and already halfway to the door.

He considered telling her the truth. He considered sharing every terrible crime he'd committed, everything he'd remembered. For everything he'd done to her, the least she deserved was the truth, the full story so she could decide whether to send him away or not.

It was a futile wish. He no longer had the words to enumerate his transgressions; they stretched before him as vast as the endless ocean. It was better for her to hate him in this way; it was better to keep her as far away from that part of him as possible. He hated to admit it, but he couldn't bear to guide her to hate him.

After a week, a note made its way to him. It bore her handwriting and was signed in her name, but the words were strange, unfamiliar; ultimately detached. _Meet me in the Hanged Man tonight_ was all it had said. No trace of her enthusiasm, no quirky editorials. The request was bare as the vellum she'd written on.

So he'd obeyed. Though fear and loathing slowed his progress, he trudged to Lowtown, distantly expecting to find Varric and the others waiting, ready to beat him within an inch of his life. Perhaps he would have allowed it, if it came to that. It would be no more than he deserved.

But they were nowhere to be seen. The Hanged Man was moderately busy, patrons and drunks chattering loudly as they slopped beer and food over themselves. He usually found the cacophony soothing, but not today; today it was as if each individual voice scraped along his nerves like nails into his flesh. And in the back corner, looking so uncharacteristically stoic that his heart faltered in his chest, was Hawke.

He'd been terrified to see her. He'd been utterly afraid to see the evidence of his crime against her bare in her eyes, her affect. But she smiled as he approached, and though the smile did not reach her eyes, it still lanced through him, thrilling his already failing heart.

"Fenris," she said by way of greeting. "Join me for a drink?"

Her voice was smooth, casual, and he marveled at her ridiculous composure. He could only nod, for fear that if he tried to speak, his voice would choke and die in his throat.

Hawke gestured for a pair of ales, and due to her mild celebrity, she was not kept waiting long; Norah scurried across the crowded floor and set the ales in front of them, smiling uncharacteristically as Hawke pressed a generous tip into her palm.

They drank in stilted silence, but he watched her surreptitiously over the rim of his mug because he could not keep his eyes away. She was still so beautiful, and now he was not only haunted by what was before him but memories of her as well. They coiled through his thoughts like smoke, obfuscating everything he hoped to say to her.

He wanted to apologize. He wanted not only to beg for her forgiveness but to earn it. He wanted nothing more than to apologize again for his stupid cowardice and prove to both of them that he wasn't worthless and small, that he loved her and would do anything to preserve it for the delicate entity it was.

But he was worthless and small, and much more besides. He was a coward. He was a murderer. He was an easily manipulated tool, and he couldn't be trusted with what was most precious to him. So he drank in silence, waiting for her to speak.

"I'm sorry," she finally said.

He nearly choked on his ale. "What?"

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I . . . I've been going over it in my head and I just think I might have pushed you into something you didn't want or-"

"No." Suddenly, he was strangely angry. It was so typical of her to try and take the entire blame when in this instance, the fault lay solely with him. "You did nothing wrong. This isn't your fault. This is mine. I'm sorry, Hawke."

She didn't respond immediately. He saw the carefully shell of her composure break apart a bit; her lips curved downward into a heartbreaking frown and when she looked up at him, the breath went out of him, as if she'd punched him instead. "Can you tell me why?"

Of all the questions between them, and she asked on the one he could never answer. He struggled for the truth, grasping for each loose end that slipped from his tongue. She deserved the entire truth, undoubtedly. She'd endured so much of him and he'd given nothing to her in return but pain. He struggled fruitlessly, and ultimately in vain, for she held up a hand. "Never mind, Fenris. You don't have to tell me."

He did, and yet he knew that if he did there would be no forgiveness between them. There wouldn't be that dim shadow of what could have been, and he wanted that. He couldn't have her in the way he wanted, and love had made a beggar out of him, so he would take what he could get. Selfishly, horribly, but impossible to suppress or deny. "I'm sorry," was all he could say.

She shook her head. "You don't have to keep apologizing. I think I understand. This isn't why I called you here, anyways."

He swallowed the steady litany of apologies that bubbled in his throat. "Why did you, then?"

She seemed to steady herself, and he knew then without a shadow of a doubt that her cool, smooth exterior was a show. She struggled just as he did, and the realization made him sick at himself. "I know this is . . . weird, honestly. I keep thinking . . . I know that . . . things happened between us, and I can't take them back, even if I wanted to. I just wanted you to know that I won't bring it up again. You'll never hear it from me." She took another breath and closed her eyes, steeling herself. "If you want, we can go back to the way things way. As friends."

He loved her and hated her at that moment. He loved her for understanding him without demand, for accepting his betrayal with open arms. He loved her for loving him enough to move on no questions asked. He hated that she refused to punish him as he deserved. He mostly hated himself.

But he couldn't bring himself to refuse, to reject her completely. He would take whatever scraps he could, selfishly, despite what was best for both of them. "All right. As friends." Even when the words left his lips he knew them for lies. There could be no true friendship between them. There would always be something more; love or the scar of it.

* * *

They tried, gamely. Hawke was light and buoyant again, quick with a clever remark and eager laugh, though a closer look betrayed her affect to be an act. See here, the tightness of her eyes, the brittle quality to her smile. Fenris had become intimately familiar with the closet of her smiles in recent years, and the false one so often on her face nowadays did not fool him.

He tried too. He accepted jobs with her as he had before. He drank with Hawke and the others at the Hanged Man when the day was done. His silence didn't really alarm anyone, as he hadn't been particularly verbose before. But Varric wasn't fooled; indeed, Fenris wondered if anything passed under the dwarf's eyes unnoticed. His stare had become sharp, accusing, and it was obvious that he knew exactly what had happened, though Fenris was sure Hawke hadn't said a word.

She kept her promise to him. So he kept his. He avoided being alone with her. He guarded against errant touches, which in those first days had managed to become habit between them. It was a dual misery; painful to feel her fingers absently brush against his arm, painful to see her expression falter when he pulled away.

Sensing his tactic, she mimicked him. She stopped coming to the mansion at night, stopping seeking him out without the presence of at least one other person. Their conversations were cool, polite; only a shadow of the easy camaraderie they'd had before. She was all too willing to play his game.

He hated it. For the first time in years, he considered leaving Kirkwall, only abandoning the thought when the pain it conjured nearly knocked the breath from him. So they continued, dancing their cautious, hurtful dance, careful to remain along the lines they'd drawn.

It would work, eventually. They would both learn to move on, to be only friends again. He clung to that belief like a dying man clings to life, for it seemed every moment in her presence showed it to be a lie. He could lie to her – disturbingly easily, in fact – but he couldn't lie to himself.

Fenris trudged through the streets of Hightown, intent on his mansion. It was twilight and the sky was still tinged with pinks and reds, slowly giving way to darkness. It had been a particularly hard day; they'd resolved another altercation between the Qunari and the Chantry, although Fenris used the word 'resolved' lightly. It was clear that both sides of the conflict had not forgotten the incident, nor would they any time soon.

He'd opened a bottle of wine with the intention of drinking it until he fell asleep in his chair when the sound of someone pounding on the front door startled him. He paused, lyrium growling over his flesh. Part of him expected it to be Hawke; in fact, part of him wanted it to be her. He shook the thought away as he made his way down to the door. She'd carefully obeyed the lines they'd drawn, and he couldn't imagine anything that would drive her to his home this late at night.

But to his surprise, it was Hawke. For the first time since his betrayal, distress was plain on her face, in her wild open eyes, in her fingers twitching toward her daggers. Every word of protest died the moment he saw her, replaced by fear of what could have upset her so badly.

"What is it?" he said without preamble.

Her hands shook. "I'm sorry to come here like this . . ." she began, but he cut her off.

"Don't apologize," he said quickly. Anger nearly choked him; if anyone had hurt her . . . "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

She shook her head and he could breathe again. "No, I'm . . ." She paused, took a shaky breath. "Mother is missing."

His response was to turn inside without a word, re-emerging a second later with his greatsword strapped to his back. The look of gratitude and relief on her face was beautiful. "Let's go," he said.

She explained hurriedly as they moved through the streets, speaking in a low voice. "She didn't come home tonight. She told me she'd gone out to be with a suitor but that she'd be back by dinner. And when I looked around I found . . ." She clenched her eyes shut. "I found those flowers, you know. Those lilies. The ones that killer left the mage woman. Meiran?"

He instinctively knew it was serious. Leandra was punctual and considerate, and she'd never keep her daughter waiting without sending word. But the mention of the lilies chilled his blood. He steeled himself for Hawke's sake. "We'll find her," he said and he meant it with every fiber of his being. Perhaps in this service, he could begin to atone for what he'd done to Hawke.

She looked up at him with a half-smile, though her eyes were still tight with worry. "Thank you, Fenris. I- I just thought-"

"You don't have to thank me," he said, more earnestly than he intended.

"I didn't mean to offend . . ."

"That's not what I meant. I-" Maker, this was hard. "Just, I'm here. For . . . whatever you need. Whatever I can do." It was the truth, but such a paltry truth. It was far less than she deserved.

But she accepted it, just as he'd known she would. "Thank you just the same."

They hurried to Lowtown, where Varric and Anders were waiting, watching Gamlen Amell attempt to ply answers out of a street urchin with little success. Gamlen had taken to repeating the same question over and over again, as if lack of understanding was preventing the boy from providing the answers he sought.

"Lee-AN-DRA!" he enunciated impatiently. "Looks like me, grey hair, brown eyes."

"I ain't see no one looking like you, serah," the boy said, looking eager to escape the situation. But as his gaze fell on Hawke, his expression brightened. "Saw one that looked like her, though. Real like. I saw a man drag her through that alley there," he said, indicating with one grubby finger. "How about somefink for me trouble?"

Hawke had already set out in the direction of the alley, and so Gamlen turned on the boy with a grimace, pressing two coins into his palm. "Now beat it!" he hissed.

Fenris and the others struggled to keep pace with Hawke, not without effort. The angle of her shoulders was stiff with mingled fear and determination; she pursued her mother with such single-mindedness, he wasn't certain the end of the world could distract her.

Her gasp was shockingly loud in the night. "Look," she breathed, horrified. At her feet was a puddle of blood, the trail of it moving off into the darkness in the direction of the foundry, which churned with ominous menace.

"Maker," Varric breathed and Fenris felt his heart still in his chest. There was a lot of blood, and though he would never say so to Hawke, he suddenly had the feeling that rescue was no longer an option.

Something similar seemed to occur to Hawke anyway, for she took off running toward the foundry, her footfalls loud in the foreboding silence. She was fast when she wanted to be, and it was a struggle to catch up to her, for her pace was furious, reckless even; she didn't even pause when reaching the foundry, bounding up the stairs and wrenching open the door instead.

"Hawke, wait!" Anders called but she ignored him, diving into the foundry. The sounds of battle met them immediately, and Fenris was dimly aware of phasing into the lyrium and sprinting behind her with unnatural speed, plunging into the fray.

Demons. It was much worse than he feared. He matched Hawke's frenzied desperation stroke for stroke, hewing demons apart with brutal strikes as she stabbed and slashed with pinpoint accuracy. He wasn't fully conscious of Anders and Varric joining the battle, only noticing them after the demons had vanished in a puff of black smoke.

Hawke didn't even pause to catch her breath. She set after the trail of fresh blood immediately, sheathing her daggers without even bothering wipe the blood from the blades. Fenris followed suit and together they strode deeper into the now still foundry.

So much blood. He refused to allow himself to look away, to fall back from Hawke's side. When the trail of blood vanished down into a basement tunnel, Hawke had reached for him once, her hand trembling around his. And though he knew it was wrong and hurtful and selfish, he squeezed back.

Guilt and fear churned within him like a steady forge. He'd hurt Hawke, but he'd hurt Leandra as well. Who would have been there to sort out the mess he'd left behind? Hawke was not in the practice of sharing what disturbed her but there was no fooling Leandra; she possessed the keen insight into her children that Fenris realized all mothers had. She would have grieved and raged with Hawke, separate but present all the same.

No one spoke as they fought through wave after wave of demons. Hawke was alone among them in her blind hope; he could see it in her eyes, the way she pressed forward, dodging and dancing out of harm's way, as if there was still a happy ending in store. "She's close," she said every few moments. "We're almost there." She sounded as if she strove to convince herself more than the others.

They thudded down a haphazard set of steps into an oddly lived in pit. There was a rumpled bed in the corner, a fireplace, a few scattered bookshelves, and pages after pages of notes, each more disturbing than the last. And at the center of it all, a framed portrait of a woman who looked like Leandra, save for a few marked differences. The portrait was situated in such a way that it seemed like everything else was periphery, unimportant, and the inhabitant of this place only cared for the immaculate picture of a woman.

"This isn't right," Anders murmured, picking up one of the notes as if afraid it would bite. "Did you read this?"

"I don't care," Hawke replied. "Come on."

They obeyed, and there was no other attempt to stop and understand the situation after that.

The tunnels became darker, dirtier, and Fenris noted that no more demons attempted to attack them, but Hawke did not slow her pace. Even though she had to leap and dodge over a myriad of traps, she did not stop her push forward. Fenris kept close to her heels, sword at the ready.

At the end of the tunnel, there was a dim light. A man stood in relief, facing a chair and murmuring to whoever sat there. "My beloved," he whispered in a cloying, nasal voice, and Fenris felt his blood run cold. Demons prowled around the man like pets and he knew; this was the mage. This was the murderer.

The man didn't seem to notice their approach until Hawke was nearly upon him, her fury nearly radiating from her like heat. "Where is my mother?" she demanded, drawing her blades. "Answer me."

The mage smiled a sick grin, all pointed edges. "She's safe," he replied. "She was certain you'd come for her. All the way until the end. And even then, I saw it in her eyes. She knew her precious daughter would come. And you have. She will be so happy."

Fenris nearly snarled in anger; this monster was toying with them! "What have you done, you filth?" he spat, drawing his greatsword, the lyrium bristling in his blood, his flesh.

The mage's grin widened so far that he looked deranged, a second away from collapsing into insanity. "I have given her everlasting life," he explained as if this were joyfully obvious. "See for yourselves." He gestured with a long finger toward the chair, where a woman struggled to stand.

No . . . not a woman. What had once been a woman, yes. As the creature turned to face them, Fenris stopped, his heart rattling in his chest, struggling to beat, to breathe. It was Leandra, and yet it wasn't. Her once lively brown eyes were dead things, staring beyond them without seeing. Her skin was ravaged with ragged stitching, as if the monster had pieced her together from various parts. When she opened her mouth to scream, it was the not the voice he remembered; it was the howl of the dead.

He was aware of Hawke trembling beside him as she struggled to reconcile her mother to what stood before her now. She didn't say a word. Her shaking hands drew her daggers and without a sound she flew toward the mage, a flurry of flashing blades in the low light.

Demons erupted from the filth below their feet, surging forward with dead eye and teeth bared, and the room descended into battle. The mage had thrown up a shield, skilled enough to cast from behind it, and the demons churned around them, biting, slashing, grasping.

Hawke was beyond anything he'd seen. Normally, she was graceful, skilled, perfectly controlled in every moment. Battle for her was almost a dance. But he'd never seen Hawke like this. She was feral, disturbed; she lashed out like a wounded beast driven into a corner, her face drawn in horrifying rage.

He echoed her fury, for it was all he could do for her now. He scythed through the hordes of demons like a creature possessed. He sank so far into the lyrium haze that the world around him grew dim and blurred, difficult to recognize. Now, there was only live and death, balanced at the edge of his sword.

Anders sent an arcane missile toward the mage like a bullet from a Qunari gun; it smashed across the mage's shield just long enough for it to flicker for half a second. But that was all Hawke needed. She hurled at throwing blade toward the mage with deadly velocity, and though the mage shambled to the side, he was too slow – it thudded high into his shoulder. Fenris felt his howl echo in his bones.

The mage was breathing hard, feral and disturbed, and blood flecked his chin. His hands crooked in the shape of a spell and his lips moved, shaping, conjuring-

-and in the next instant, Hawke slammed into him headlong. There was a flash of her blade and he was dead the next instant, his throat overflowing blood like a river that had broken its banks.

What was left of the demons disappeared and the pit was silent once more, save for the sound of four different sets of labored breathing. Behind him, Fenris heard Varric retch and Anders stared ahead with an expression so ill that Fenris dimly wondered if he would vomit as well. But Hawke said nothing. She stood slowly and wiped her blades on the mage's robes. He heard her breath hitch and falter, saw her hands clench into fists. He had made his way to her side before he saw it; Leandra, still shambling toward them.

No one moved for what seemed to be hours. He held his hand out in instinct, blade drawn, and waited for the moment when the abomination would fly into a rage at seeing its master destroyed. But those dead eyes cleared into the recognizable brown of Leandra's and when it opened its mouth, it spoke using her voice.

"Marian," she whispered and collapsed into a broken heap, like a windup toy out of steam.

Hawke was at her side in an instant, gathering her up into her arms and holding her closely. "Anders, can you heal her?"

Anders knelt at Leandra's side and ran his glowing hands over her body, searching for something to mend, but after a moment he pulled away and shook his head. "That mage was the only thing keeping her alive," he said, and his voice broke.

"No," Hawke whispered, cradling her mother closer. "Try again." When Anders didn't move or respond, she rounded on him, eyes flashing. "Please!"

"Marian," Leandra said again. She struggled to raise a hand to Hawke's face. "It's all right."

Hawke caught her hand and folded it within her own. "Stay with me, Mother," she said and she attempted a brave smile. "We'll find some help for you. The Circle, or the Chantry. This isn't so bad."

"No, Marian." Leandra said gently, shaking her head, and Fenris knew that each motion, each word taxed her beyond her ability to recover from.

Hawke mashed her lips together in a hard line and her hands shook. "I'm so sorry, Mama," she whispered, and her voice broke. "I've failed you."

"No, my sweetheart."

"Yes," Hawke said, shaking lips white. "Carver and Bethany, and you. I . . ."

"My little bird," Leandra whispered, reaching up to touch Hawke's face. "I've always been proud of you. Your strength and kindness, your brightness and wisdom. You are the best of us, and now you are the last."

"All right," Hawke said, though it wasn't. "All right," she lied and summoned a brittle smile, leaning down over her mother as if rocking a fretful child to sleep, a sudden, heartbreaking reversal.

"I love you, little bird," Leandra said, her voice little more than a whisper and slowly she fell limp, each breath growing shallower until she did not speak or move or breathe again.

"Goodnight, Mama," Hawke said, her head pressed into her mother's chest, and her voice ripped and twisted at the edges. "Goodnight."

Behind him, Fenris heard Varric take a shuddering breath and his own eyes stung with anger and grief. But Hawke did not cry, not even then. She trembled so badly that Fenris feared she would splinter apart at each tender faultline, but she held her broken pieces together; trembling, but silently.

* * *

No one saw her for days. She wasn't there for Leandra's cremation, though it seemed all of Kirkwall had come in her stead. She avoided her contracts, enlisted Bodhan to turn away well-wishers. No one knew if she had taken to mourning in her mansion or if she had left town all together, and though the whole city was desperately curious, no one dared to intrude.

No one, save for Fenris. After three days, he could not contain his worry any longer. His selfish, foolish promises to give her space seemed to pale in importance in light of what had happened. He could feel her pain from a distance, and though he still feared himself, he suddenly needed to be there for her, as she had been for him many times over.

The weather was lovely, he noticed bitterly as he made his way to Hawke's, without the good grace to be overcast and rainy. Business continued as usual, though he noticed that the passers-by gave the Amell mansion a wide berth as they carried on; their whispers strident and grasping. Every now and then one would peek toward the windows, as if hoping the heavy drapes would have been pulled away, giving a clear, unobstructed view inside.

Fenris ignored them and knocked on the great door. No one answered, not even Bodhan, and suddenly a vision of her broken and bloodless crashed into his thoughts. He knocked again, and when there was no answer, he forced the door open.

"Hawke?" he called, heart beating in his throat.

Nothing.

He descended into full panic, the horrified visions of her as a shambling abomination overtaking all other rational thought, but he paused when he heard a gasp of pain. He'd know her voice anywhere, and filled with equal parts concern and relief, he bounded up the stairs to her room and threw her door open.

She was there, blessedly alive, and he thought the relief would knock his feet from under him. She sat in the middle of her floor by the fireplace, holding a dagger in one shaking hand. The other clutched her ear, and he saw a rivulet of blood seep through her fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly self-conscious. "I didn't mean . . . I was just . . . I was wondering if you were all right," he finished lamely. The panic faded from his thoughts, and it was then he noticed that her position could be construed as somewhat odd. "What are you doing?"

She looked up at him with hard, glassy eyes. "I . . . Mother used to brush it," she said, twisting a lock of her long, dark hair between shaking fingers. "I don't want it anymore. I wanted to cut it off, but my hands won't steady and I nicked my ear."

"Oh."

Silence.

It occurred to him that the last time he'd been here was when they'd been intimate, when he'd left her without so much as a passable excuse. Guilt, that familiar companion, boiled away in his gut, and he realized coming here was possibly the worst idea he could have had.

But she looked up at him, trying so hard to be strong, the muscles of her jaw working against the grief that threatened to burst from her in a seething howl, and suddenly he could not leave, not even if he wanted to. _You don't need to be strong for me,_ he wanted to tell her, though he knew it wasn't true; he'd hurt her in the same way as the world. He couldn't give her want they both needed, but he would try to give her what he could.

"Do you want some help?" he said, carefully avoiding the word 'need'.

She didn't even pause to consider before nodding, and he took a seat beside her. She closed her eyes and pinched the wound on her ear to keep it from bleeding. He held out his hand for her blade and gathered up her long, beautiful hair with one hand. Her neck was slim and pale under the curtain of it, and he ignored the way his own breath suddenly became deafening, the way his heart threatened to burst from his chest. He sawed through her hair, shearing it as closely to her scalp as he dared, and pressed the bundled hair into her hand.

She stood and stared at her hair, long and silken in her hands, and then as suddenly as a strike, she tossed it into the flames, where it charred and blackened before burning clean away.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Very special thanks to all my reviewers; Phoenike, Liso66, ZoraAngel, Wasagi, LifeandFire25, DKAllayna, Sepsis, R2s Muse, Jedi Kacee, NoMadKa, Castinc, exxie, Bettycake, CreatedInFyre7, Kainen-no-Kitsune, and Billini, and to everyone else who faved and followed. Your support and thoughtful reviewing are inspiration to this amateur! **

**I love hearing what you all think, so feel free to leave me a review with your thoughts if you're so inclined. Thanks everyone for reading and I hope you enjoy. **

Hawke resumed her life in the next days, though this time as an actress. She affected her previous self with so much verve that only those closest to her could tell the difference. She laughed and told stories, but there was no mistaking the tightness of her eyes, the way her expression would crumble when she thought no one was watching.

And Fenris usually was.

Aside from the odd job together, he rarely saw her anymore. He had chosen for any interaction between them to be on her terms, and her answer to this was clear. She avoided him. They rarely spoke now; not even about meaningless things. She had perhaps judged facing him too painful, and he found he agreed.

He was haunted in those days. It was as if some subversive part of him was determined to keep her near in some way, and if it couldn't be through life, it would be through an endless litany of beautiful and painful memories. Laughing together on a job. Talking through all hours of the night. Her kiss, her touch.

Though he was miserable, he bore it as well as he could. It was better than the alternative, he reminded himself. He couldn't be trusted to love her and keep her safe and he would rather have died than lose her. So he kept his lips mashed into a hard line almost constantly, so as to keep the words that struggled within him at bay.

It wasn't like before, where there were two aspects of his character in argument nearly always. Those traitorous aspects had united and now they railed against him, assaulting his control and purpose. They tormented him with happier memories, with desire, with anything that might lose his hold on himself.

Admittedly, it didn't take much. And after a week, he found he couldn't take it anymore.

He was desperate enough to not only consider offering the truth, but to positively hurl it at her. He no longer cared if she would accept him after; the effort involved in keeping himself separate and remote was impossible and the toll it had taken on him made basic functioning a chore. He ate little and rarely slept. He haunted the abandoned mansion as a shiftless ghost, lyrium lighting him inside-out like a paper lantern.

He didn't even pause to consider what he'd say. He didn't try to corral his chaotic thoughts and impulses into something she'd be able to accept or understand. All he knew was that he could no longer keep himself separate and safe. He could no longer allow this lie.

So he half-ran through Hightown to her home. Spring was giving way into summer – the gloaming air was warm, the stars peeking through indigo sky. Cicadas sang their throaty song, accompanied by the rustle of the newly leaved trees in an idle breeze coming from the bay. It was too nice an evening to stay cooped up and as such most of Hightown was promenading, enjoying the light of the lanterns against the sky.

He hardly noticed them, not even when their scandalized whispering broke through the sounds of summer. He was desperate, nearly unhinged. It felt as if he hadn't slept since Leandra died. Perhaps he hadn't since he'd slept with her, nestled together like spoons, oblivious to the world around them. The memory felt so distant that he wondered if another man had lived it.

He pounded on the door, nearly vibrating with anticipation. Fear, also. It blended with his exhaustion and surged through him like a drug, made him feel slightly drunk. He waited for what felt like hours. Was no one home? He was about to knock again when the door opened slightly, revealing two wide green eyes that peered up at him.

He ransacked his memory for the name. "Orana?"

She nodded. "And you are Fenris," she said in a small voice.

They stood in silence for a moment. Fenris realized she was waiting for him to demand something of her before she spoke again; a result of lifelong conditioning as a slave. "Is Hawke home?"

Orana slowly shook her head. "Mistress is- I mean, M-Marian is out," she said, stumbling on the reflexive title.

He felt himself deflate; the mad purpose and desire replaced with exhaustion and dismay. "Do you know when she'll return?"

Orana bit her lip, eyes darting away, and it suddenly struck Fenris that she appeared worried, upset even. "No," she said.

"What's wrong?" he asked her quickly.

She looked around him, as if searching for eavesdroppers, and then beckoned him inside. He obeyed, alarmed by her fear. It was only after she had closed the door when she seemed to relax a little, though still upset. "I don't like him," she whispered.

He felt something curdle in his gut; fear, maybe. "Who?" he demanded more forcefully than he intended.

She seemed to struggle for the name. "The . . . mage," she whispered. "Anders."

"What?" His mouth felt dry.

"She's out with the mage. He comes by all of the time now, clutching his papers, bothering Mistress. I don't like him."

Fenris swallowed with difficulty; it was hard to breathe. "Why don't you like him?" he asked as carefully as he could, mindful not to startle Orana with the sudden temper he felt buzzing through his veins.

Orana paused, weighing her words, but then her expression hardened into poorly concealed dislike. "He bothers her about . . . a revolution. He keeps talking about a revolution and mages – he keeps calling them slaves, though they aren't! Not like us! And when he leaves she always looks so tired. I wish he'd leave her alone." She whispered the last words with vehemence.

Fenris was nearly agog. He didn't have the presence of mind to be stunned at Orana's ranting, though it was the most he'd heard her speak in the time he'd known her. The thought of Anders – that foul, grasping mage! – bothering Hawke day in and out sent tremors of temper rolling him through him like a quake. He clenched his suddenly shaking hands into violent fists.

"Why tell me?" he heard himself ask.

"You understand," Orana said, blinking up at him owlishly. "You understand what they're like. And you care for Mistress- I mean, Marian. You care for her. You want her to be happy."

"How do you know?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "I can tell," she said, fidgeting.

He let that line of questioning go. "What's this about a revolution?"

"He wants to free all of the mages. He . . . talks about how it is in Tevinter. Like it's better there."

"It's better for mage, surely," Fenris said bitterly.

"He wants to change things here. I don't know. He scribbles his papers and has Mistress read them."

A small part of Fenris felt cheap for plying Orana for answers into Hawke's meetings with Anders, but he couldn't control the impulse, for it curdled in his stomach like rancid meat. "How does Hawke react?"

Orana shook her head. "I don't know. She just seems tired. But he doesn't care! He just keeps asking, keeps pushing. I hate him!" she hissed and her eyes went wide. She pressed her trembling hands to her mouth, terrified at having said such a thing about a mage, and Fenris felt pity and temper nearly overwhelm him.

"He's not going to hurt you," he said firmly.

"But- but!"

"I won't say anything."

She took a breath and nodded. "I try to hide when he comes over."

"I would continue to do that," Fenris said before pushing the front door open. "Thank you, Orana."

"Shall I tell Mistress – I mean, Marian that you came over?" Orana asked, eager to please in the face of his camaraderie.

"No, don't bother," Fenris told her. "Good evening."

He didn't hear Orana wish him a fine evening and close the door behind him. He couldn't hear the nobles of Hightown chatter through their lazy promenade. He couldn't hear the cicadas sing.

He only heard the thud of his heart, beating in time with his boiling temper.

Well, what had he expected? More importantly, why? Why should Hawke have been right where he left her those weeks ago, tangled naked in the sheets and watching the door with inscrutable eyes? Why had he expected to resume their life and love as if nothing had happened? As if he hadn't abandoned and betrayed her, as if she hadn't just lost her mother.

Why? Because he was stupid.

Even if he been able to confess his crimes to her and beg for her forgiveness, it was unlikely she'd give it. He'd already pushed her beyond her ability to forgive with his constant failures and ineptitudes. With his crimes.

So logically, it came as no surprise that she would move on. Of course. Why shouldn't she? Why shouldn't she seek comfort from another, one who hadn't hurt her as he had? Above anything he wanted for her, he wanted her to be happy and safe. Of course. He knew beyond any doubt that she could never been either of those with him, but perhaps she could with another.

But why did it have to be the mage? Swaggering, pouting, ranting Anders, who never met a silence he didn't like to fill with his self-serving prattle. Constantly raving about the oppression of the mages, likening it to slavery! Slavery! As if he'd known a life where one could as easily been killed as raped or beaten, all for failing to address their master correctly or something equally small. As if he'd known a life harrowed and tormented by those with unnatural power, corrupting it into justification for their crimes.

Of course the mage wouldn't have waited. He'd seen an opportunity and swooped in for the kill, all smiles and charming sentiments. He'd seen what he wanted and gone for it, regardless of what was best for Hawke. Hawke, still grieving for her mother. Hawke, beset by what seemed like every problem in this pestilential city.

Well, hadn't he been about to do the same thing? Shame colored his temper. He'd had a moment of foolish selfishness, but he would not again. He would not inflict his desires on Hawke, regardless of how miserable they made him. And nor should he anyway, considering what he was.

And what had Orana said about the mage's desire for a revolution? He supposed this wasn't exactly news – it was all the fool ever spoke of – but he hadn't known Anders was as serious on the subject as he appeared. He'd mistakenly judged the mage as all talk, no action; whining and wailing about the apparent misfortune of mages while unwilling to do anything about it. He found he preferred the Anders who had only had the sense to complain.

Out of blind instinct, he made his way through the narrow alleys of Lowtown to the Hanged Man. He'd nearly exhausted the supply of alcohol in the mansion and at this moment the only thing he really wanted was a stiff drink and the relief of vague drunkenness.

To his surprise, the Hanged Man was almost empty. A few drunks huddled in the corner and Isabela entertained her usual court of ardent admirers, but aside from them it was largely vacant. The bartended looked deathly bored, brightening when Fenris came through the door.

Fenris almost turned around – he'd been somewhat hoping for the din of a busy night to further drown his thoughts – but before he could consider it Isabela shooed away her admirers and beckoned him over, and he figured it would be discourteous to avoid her.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked him, eyebrow quirking.

"Do you only know rude ways to greet people?" he retorted as he signaled to the bartender for a drink.

"I'm serious. You look terrible." He was surprised to see something akin to concern on her face.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

"Maybe I haven't," he admitted sourly. She'd keep prodding at him until he gave her some kind of answer.

"What are you doing here, then?"

"I wouldn't be here if I could sleep."

She took a sip of her ale. "Fair point."

They fell into silence, which stretched to an unmanageable length far too quickly. He was suspicious; he'd never known Isabela to be quiet and thoughtful in all the years he'd known her, and yet now she seemed to be ransacking her thoughts for a subject of conversation that wouldn't upset or offend.

"So . . . " she began tentatively. "How's it going?"

He stared at her, her overly eager smile. "You know, don't you."

Her expression was pleading. "Of course I know. Everyone knows."

"Did she tell you?"

"No! Of course not. It's just, you two are obvious. You spent every day together, all of the time, and then suddenly you're avoiding each other, you're shooting her sad looks, she's shooting you sad looks, it's all very sad. Of course we all figured it out."

This threw Anders's actions into a whole new light. He felt his temper resurface, unaffected by the alcohol. "I was foolish to think you wouldn't, I guess," he allowed.

"Not foolish. Just . . . oblivious. I'd use that word."

"Good choice."

She sank into a mock bow. "I aim to please."

"Hmph."

They were silent again as Fenris drained his ale and signaled for another. He should have guessed there would be no secrets between what had transpired and their absurd circle of companions. The misfits, Hawke had called them once. He tried to summon the appropriate and characteristic dismay at having their personal history unearthed so easily, but to his surprise it was something of a relief.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Isabela asked carefully.

He almost smiled. "Thank you, but no."

"Well . . . you can, if you want. I mean, I won't tell anyone. Not many people. Okay, I'd probably tell everyone, but it would feel nice to get it off your chest, right?"

"It's fine," he said, draining another ale. "I appreciate the thought."

"No problem. I may be a gossip, but I do care . . . well, about you two. About what happens." She surprised him by suddenly seeming uncomfortable, as if admitting that was a weakness. "Ah, you know."

"I do."

She rolled her mug between her hands, spinning the dregs of ale within. "I think you'll work it out, for what it's worth."

Though she was wrong, her faith warmed him. "I don't think we will," he said distantly, staring down at a burn spot on the bar. "Not now, anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

Ah, shit. He'd spoken before consciously thinking, a result of the alcohol that numbed his thoughts. But at that moment it didn't really matter that Isabela wasn't likely to take sides, or that she was an insufferable gossip who would probably repeat his words verbatim to everyone they knew and even some they didn't.

He shook his head, gesturing blindly for another ale. "Anders has been hanging around. Took her out tonight. I don't know." He closed his eyes against the path his thoughts threatened to go down. "I don't know."

"Oh, Fenris," Isabela said, and to his surprise she did not sound pitying. "I don't think that means what you think it does."

"Why wouldn't it?"

"I mean, I can't speak for what's going on in Anders's head," she quickly clarified. "But I know it isn't like that for Hawke."

"How?" he demanded, suddenly intent.

"I've seen them around. You know. He hangs on her elbow, chattering, trying to engage, but she doesn't really reciprocate." She paused, struggling to articulate something difficult. "She looks . . . unhappy, most of the time. Tired."

He fought not to choke on his temper, so close to the surface these days. It was one thing if Hawke enjoyed the mage's presence, sought it out even; it would be painful, but he'd accept it because it would have been her choice, her own decision toward happiness. This was different. This was an insistent man who attempted to turn the situation in his favor by persistence alone. He felt his gut twist with the force of his anger, his hands fists again.

He couldn't even be properly relieved that Hawke did not seem to return the mage's interest. But he slowly unclenched his hands and took a breath, turning back to Isabela again. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

"What?" Isabela was agog.

"I'm sorry she's unhappy, I mean."

Isabela didn't seem to know how to respond to this. She watched Fenris with her mouth slightly agape, struggling for words. "You're a good man," she finally said, somewhat awed.

Fenris scowled. "I'm really not."

"Bullshit. You really don't care that she's hanging out with magey-pants. You're just upset that she's unhappy." Her awe deepened. "Who are you, and where are there more like you?"

"What?"

"So I can have one for myself!" Isabela grinned then, giving him a shake. "Seriously!"

He cleared his throat nervously. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh forget I said anything."

"I'll try."

She grinned. "Like I said, I think you two will work it out."

"Why am I getting the feeling you made another wager on the outcome?" he asked her pointedly.

"Because you always believe the worst of me," she huffed.

"Not without cause."

"Fine. I made a wager with Varric. I think he's kind of sore at you, actually; he usually bets in your favor."

Fenris let out a heavy sigh. "I don't blame him."

"Oh, stop, will you? Cool it with the self-flagellation."

He snorted. "I'm surprised you know such a big word."

"I'm serious."

He looked at her sideways, arching a brow. "You're quite serious today."

"What can I say? Your dour glowering has rubbed off." She fixed him with a frown. "I mean it. Beating yourself up over it isn't really going to help matters, is it?"

"I guess not."

"I mean, who hasn't done something they regret? Life is regret. You can't let it eat away at you, though. Does that make sense?"

He mulled over her words. "So . . . life is regret, but don't live your regret?"

"Well, when you put it like that, just forget I said anything," she huffed, downing the rest of her ale in one pull.

He watched her for a moment. Isabela didn't have to help him or listen to his petulant whining, but she did without much complaining. She offered him hope and though he was still certain he didn't really deserve any he appreciated it more than he knew how to say. "Thank you," he finally said, unable to look at her.

She grinned. "My pleasure. I mean, I can't help in the way I'd prefer, so might as well be an ear and a shoulder."

He almost didn't ask. "And what is your preferred way of helping?"

"Oh, I think you know," she said, her grin turning predatory. "How miserable could you be in my bed?"

Ah- there it was. He cleared his throat. "That is . . . kind of you to offer, but I'll have to decline."

"Spoilsport," she pouted, but he could tell it was an affectation; her eyes were light with mischief. "Well, come on. Might as well pass the time with something relatively more wholesome."

"And that would be?"

"Wicked Grace, of course. Unless you're too scared to match with a professional."

"Ha." Summoning another round of ales, he took a seat across from Isabela as she dealt, pretending not to notice as she stacked the deck and palmed cards for her hand with poorly-concealed glee.

She cleaned him out in only a few hands and then again in the next game, but he allowed her shenanigans. He was a terrible card player, for one thing; completely unable (or unwilling) to bluff. Also, he felt a sweet kind of obligation to lose to her, considering her patience and kindness in the face of his whining. And if he was being honest, he felt better than he had in weeks. Still guilty and somewhat angry but at the least he was distracted, and at this point he would take what he could get.

She'd taken him for nearly twenty sovereigns when the tavern door opened. It was summer and yet the room felt colder when he saw who had entered; Anders, looking as smug as he'd ever seen him. Whatever acceptance or peace he'd felt evaporated in that instant, and the gut churning temper was fast on its heels.

"Anders," Isabela said equitably, shifting the cards between her fingers. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Just stopping by for a drink," Anders replied. "Long day."

"Seems that way," Isabela said with a nervous look toward Fenris.

Anders continued on as if he hadn't heard. "It's looking like full on war with the Qunari. First the patrols, then the viscount's own son, killed in the Chantry. Things won't stay like this for long. Marian's worried."

The sound of Hawke's first name on the mage's lips tore at Fenris's control, made it difficult to see clearly. But he took a breath, swallowed; it would not do to lose his temper now. In fact, he suspected this was what Anders had in mind.

Isabela was suddenly slung with the role of peacemaker, one she was not familiar with. "Well, I imagine anyone would be worried," she said nervously.

Anders sighed. "You know how she's been these last weeks though. She has enough to worry about without anything adding to it." It occurred to Fenris that the mage's tone had become decidedly pointed.

Temper blurred his thoughts. This selfish moron, speaking about Hawke's problems as if he was a solution and not a cause! As if he was legitimately worried! He stood and set some money on the table. "Your winnings, Isabela. Thank you for the conversation."

He'd nearly made it to the door when Anders called out. "I know what happened, Fenris," he hurled across the room, his voice barbed with accusation. "I don't know why you're still here."

"I imagine what you don't know could fill a library," Fenris said, turning slowly. The mage had stood and faced him with an irritatingly fervent expression, as if he imagined himself Hawke's champion now.

"You were an idiot to leave Hawke," he said, ignoring Isabela's wordless protests.

Fenris almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. "I don't know why think it's any of your business," he said, desperately trying to hold onto his temper. Regardless of his feelings toward the foolish mage, he knew Hawke would be unhappy if he reduced Anders to smear on the floor.

"I love her! I can't imagine you know what that even is," Anders said passionately.

He didn't think to be stunned at this admission, at Anders nursing unrequited feelings toward Hawke for years on end. He didn't think at all. "Don't bear your heart to me, mage, unless you'd have me rip it out," he snarled, the lyrium in his flesh responding to his anger.

"Anders!" Isabela finally cut in. "I think you should leave."

"Don't bother," Fenris said, grasping the door so hard that he felt the wood splinter under his fingers. "I was just leaving."

"Yes, he was just leaving," Anders echoed sharply. "It's what he's best at."

He wanted nothing more than to lash out in his fury and pummel the mage within an inch of his life, for his presumption and arrogance, for his childish taunting. He would have laughed at that, at the release. But he did not. He left the tavern, shaking so badly that the everything seemed to rattle around him, poorly latched and secured in a storm. He'd managed to make it back to the mansion before howling out his anger, the world burning in his furious, lyrium gaze.

Isabela's assurances seemed very far away, flimsy untruths in the face of the mage's confident challenge. Anders was free to pursue Hawke with every bit of passion as he wanted. He was unencumbered by concern and care, made completely free by his selfishness. For it wasn't that he was safe; far from it! He was an abomination, only a step away from giving into the desires of that parasitic spirit that resided in him. He'd seen Anders nearly murder a mage girl that had dared to fear him; what danger could he pose to Hawke, who possessed no magic in which to defend herself?

Cold fear chilled his heart. He was nothing to Hawke now, perhaps not even a friend in which he could justify his presence. He'd feared himself as a danger to her, but he hadn't stopped think about what danger anyone else would pose. It figured it would be the mage-abomination, really. Of course. Unencumbered by care for Hawke, only the selfish desire to possess.

If Anders was anything like a real man should be, he would exile himself as Fenris had done. He would place her above himself; her safety, her feelings, her very life above his wants.

Fenris paced, sick at heart. He loved her, he missed her, and now he feared for her. What recourse did he have? What solution to this mess? There was none. He was nothing to Hawke – by his own doing! – and now he was ultimately powerless to help her as he needed.

He felt a brief twinge of guilt for thinking of her in this way; as something to be protected. She was strong, he knew. She was skilled and sure and he loved that about her, the easy way she cut through the world, certain in her skills. But magic was something else entirely. He'd seen his own master rip men to pieces using nothing but his mind. He'd seen Danarius drown men in blood, slowly drain them to death until they were nothing but twitching piles of flesh on the floor. He'd seen terrible things in magic and there was no defense from them.

He was powerless. Unable to help, unable to be close, unable to stay away. He could watch, he supposed, though that felt cheap. He could let go, though that was impossible.

It felt like many hours later when he heard a knock at his door, tentative. He briefly though about not answering, considering his boiling temper so close to the surface, but whoever stood outside his door did not go away. Every few moments they would knock again, though never insistently, and Fenris knew.

He opened the door, half- dreading, half-hoping. It was Hawke. Her shorn hair stuck up in untidy tufts, though it was far from being ugly; he found the effect painfully charming, disarming. She looked up at him and he felt the breath leave him, just as always. He missed her. She was beautiful.

"Fenris?"

"What is it?"

She fidgeted in place. "Nothing. Just Orana said you came by. I was wondering if something was wrong."

Fenris frowned. That traitor. He imagined the elven girl thought she was helping, though, so he couldn't be properly angry. He ransacked his thoughts of something acceptable to say, something free of implication. "I was wondering how you were doing," he said carefully. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Oh." It hurt to realize she sounded disappointed, as if she'd expected his answer to be different.

He couldn't control the question, suddenly needing. "Would you like to come in?" he asked, praying for her to say no. To say yes.

"I would, thank you," she replied, and he held the door open for her as she stepped over the threshold.

So formal, so polite. It was painful.

She took a seat facing the fire just as always, folding her legs up under herself and the sight of it was so tender. It was as if nothing had happened between them, as if she had snuck over for another one of her nightly visits, intent on his company and banter. He sat across from her, crossing his arms to control his traitorous impulses.

"How have you been?" he asked cautiously.

"Well enough, considering," she said with a wave of her hand. The flames reflected in her eyes.

"Good."

She smiled at him, though it was an unsteady thing, wavering. "I'm full of shit, aren't I? Things are a mess." He was afraid she'd accuse him as he deserved, but she continued on. "You heard about what happened to the viscount's son?"

"Oh, yeah."

She sighed. "It seems like this whole city is a steaming pot, with the lid rattling around. It won't take much longer for everything to spill over, knock the lid off."

It was an apt description, surely. But he frowned at her. "The wellbeing of this place isn't your responsibility," he said to her.

"No?"

"No, it's not. You're willing to help this city with its problems, so much so that they rely on you more than necessary. It isn't your job to fix everything here."

"Don't you think I should try, though?" she asked him without heat.

"I think you should do what you want to do, not what you think you have to do."

She smiled distantly. "It's a nice sentiment, but I don't think it works that way. I'm able to help, so therefore I should."

"I guess," he said, frowning deeply. It was typical of her to involve herself in everything out of some misguided sense of duty, as if Kirkwall was her child and she alone was responsible for raising it.

"Don't frown at me," she teased with some of her old levity. "I appreciate your thought, Fenris. It's . . . well, you're the only one who seems to think I should be a little selfish."

"If anyone deserves it, you do. Many times over," he insisted.

She considered for a moment, and when she smiled again it was not a facsimile; the sight of it made his heart falter. "Maybe one day I'll take your advice."

"Good."

They fell into companionable silence. It occurred to him as he watched her that she had come here tonight for refugee; despite everything, she came to him for a respite from the expectations that hounded her. She had come here after an evening with Anders and he noted that she did not look tired or unhappy. She gazed distantly into the fire but her expression was fond, peaceful.

After a long moment, she sighed. "Thank you."

"For?"

"For being here. I was ready to crawl out of my skull today."

"Any particular reason?"

"Lots of reasons." She smirked. "Mostly Anders has been hanging around pretty much constantly."

He didn't respond immediately, for fear she'd hear the vindictive pleasure in his voice. "And is he . . . bothering you?"

She snorted. "Would I be awful if I said yes?"

"Want me to chase him off?"

"Nah. I can do my own chasing off." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "He's just . . . he's always around. I think he's trying to be nice and distract me from . . . well, you know. But his idea of distracting me is having me edit his Manifesto."

"You're kidding." He almost felt pity for Anders, inept in ways he'd never been.

"I am not!" she laughed. "I swear on the Maker."

"Because no one has ever lied in the name of the Maker," he said, biting back a smirk that threatened his lips.

"Oh shut up. I'm serious! I mean, it's nice that Anders has something to be so . . . passionate about. I guess. But it's driving me insane."

"The fact that you aren't insane now is a testament to your will."

She smirked. "I do what I can. I mean, look." She sighed. "I know you and I don't really agree on the subject of mages. I think they should be afforded rights. But there should also be restrictions, you know? I mean carte blanche freedom for all mages . . . I just, I can't support that. Not now, not after what happened." She broke off, her lips trembling in a frown.

And he understood. He cursed Anders anew for his insensitivity and selfishness. How would reading his rambling on the rights and superiority of mages do anything to comfort Hawke, who had recently lost her mother to the insanity of a blood mage? He was suddenly so angry on her behalf that he couldn't speak at first.

"I . . . my offer still stands," he said, struggling to keep his voice smooth.

"Oh, Fenris." His heart faltered to hear the tenderness in her voice. "Don't be angry."

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just typical of him."

"Well, yeah." She shrugged, as if she'd expected Anders to be insensitive. "Anders has tunnel-vision about a lot of things. He sees what sees and can't understand how someone could see something differently."

"And doesn't that bother you?"

She shrugged again. "He means well." She grinned again. "Still annoys me though."

"That you're annoyed and not furious . . . you're better at being a person than most people."

"Why, thank you," she said, curtseying in her seat with an insouciant quirk of her lips.

They lapsed into silence once again. Though she watched the hypnotic dance of the flames, he found he could not look away from her. It was painful to be so near yes, but the pain had lessened into something bearable. Suddenly it did not seem impossible to be what she had promised they would be. Friends, only friends. He would bear it and be grateful, if only to stay by her side.

_I love you,_ he wanted to say. It would have been the truth, the only truth left in the world. But he kept it to himself. He was Fenris the Afraid, and such truths loomed before him like sentinels, ever watchful, always present.

"I mean it, though," she said after a moment.

"What?"

"I mean it; thank you."

"For?"

"For being here. Listening to me complain."

"You don't complain."

"I do so."

"Complaining implies unwarranted whining. Yours is definitely warranted."

"But I'm still whining."

He sighed. "Poor choice of words."

But she grinned at his flustered reaction, her eyes bright, and his heart ached at the sight of it. "Regardless, thank you."

"Well, you're welcome."

"I was afraid I'd be waking you up or something."

"I don't sleep much these days," he admitted.

"I don't either." She paused, her expression pulling downward into internal struggle, as if weighing a sentiment she longed to speak.

"What is it?"

"Can I stay here tonight?" It pained him to realize she expected him to reject her, to gather her up and send her away.

"Of course," he said before he could check his answer and whether it obeyed the careful lines they had drawn for their relationship. He didn't care anymore.

"It's just . . . it's hard for me to sleep at home, you know? I . . . it's too quiet. I don't know."

"It's all right," he said, and it was the truth. If the world operated in such a way, he'd have her here every day, every night. There wouldn't be cautious lines to obey, careful strictures to keep from hurting her and himself. There would only be the two of them, free to care as they needed.

She smiled at him and it hurt to breathe. "Thank-"

"Stop thanking me," he said, allowing himself to smile in return.

"Fine," she said, but she laughed.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling a bit, and he was out of his seat searching for a blanket before consciously deciding to. Somehow even in summer, this stupid mansion still creaked with cold. He pulled a relatively clean one from beside his bed and handed it to her cautiously. She smiled, though, and wrapped herself so tightly that only her face peered out, haloed by untidy black hair. She was beautiful, ridiculously so.

"Am I not even allowed to thank you for the blanket?" she asked him.

He fought his grin. "No."

"Fine. Then not-thank-you for the blanket," she retorted, pleased with herself.

He couldn't fight it then. He could only smile at her, at her happiness and that he knew it had been because of him.

It did not take her long to sink into sleep; her breathing slowed and her head lolled to the side, cradled by the high back of her chair. Her eyelids fluttered in sleep like the heartbeat of a small bird, her shock-black hair stark against her pale skin.

His thoughts spun wildly as the night deepened, drawing him down strange paths, strange but not unwanted. He knew something for certain then. He wouldn't be so selfish as to impose his desires on her, but if she asked to cross over the lines they'd drawn, he would be powerless to refuse her. He wouldn't even try.


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Many thanks to Matok, tincat, Nichalia, Kamiya-sensei, Dira11, Kainen-no-kitsune, Shinshia101, Degreebound205, R2sMuse, Inveleth, Kizzydg, CreatedInFyre7, Jedi Kacee, aiosenshi, exxie, Sepsis, Wasagi, LifeandFire25, and Cruellae for your amazing, wonderful reviews and to everyone else who read, faved and followed. You guys are fantastic and awesome. **

**Phew this chapter. Have no fear- while things end somewhat ambiguously, I have a new chapter that should be here in a few days. Stay tuned!**

**If you liked it or have some suggestions, please feel free to write me a review- I love hearing from you all. Thanks for reading :)**

Fenris knew things would change when he woke the next morning. Though the dawn was just as nondescript as any other day - the birds shrill, the heat already oppressive against storm swollen clouds - the sense of impending change was cloying as a heavily-mixed perfume.

For someone as averse to change as he was, it was not a pleasant sensation. He pinched his brow and attempted to convince himself that it was nothing more than another bout of laughable paranoia. He was prone to expecting the worst at all times – in fact, it was the reason he'd survived as long as he did – and sometimes that feeling translated into something like precognition. It wasn't, of course. Fenris didn't believe in such things.

But despite his attempts to dismiss the sensation, it continued to hound him.

Hawke woke not long after he did. She scrubbed the sleep from her eyes, blinking sleepily until her gaze met his. "Fenris," she said, surprise coloring her voice. "That's right; I slept here."

"You did."

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, standing and straightening her jerkin.

"You don't have to apologize," he reminded her. "Remember?"

"Right, right. I'm- wow, I really do apologize too much. It's like a tick, isn't it? Look, I have a few things to do today – errands and nonsense."

"Do you need any help?" Fenris offered unconsciously as they made their way to the door and out into the overcast day beyond.

"Well . . . yeah, actually. If you wouldn't mind." Her expression became comical. "I just realized Anders is probably sniffing around my house, looking for me. It might scare him away if he saw you around."

He remembered the confrontation with the mage he'd narrowly avoided the day before. "I don't know," he said. "He's been spoiling for a fight lately."

"He's been spoiling for something," Hawke said, frowning. "I'm not really sure what."

Fenris knew; the memory of Anders's confession the night before rattled through his mind like a rusted door in its frame. "I- what errands did you need help with?" he asked quickly, eager to change the subject.

But Hawke wasn't fooled. She watched him for a moment with a shrewd, piercing expression, and he had to actively keep himself still. "Fine," she said. "Keep your secrets."

"They're not secrets," Fenris said, scuffing his feet. That much was true, considering the ease in which the mage tossed about his feelings. "It's just not my place to comment."

Hawke sighed. "I guess that's fair. As for my errands, I have two; Isabela wants help with her relic, and Aveline wants help with the Qunari."

"Nothing is ever simple for you, is it?" Fenris asked her, shaking his head.

"Of course not. I'll have peace and simplicity when I'm dead," Hawke said, and though she strove to sound light and jovial, he heard the edge in her voice.

"Hawke . . ."

"Oh, leave it, Fenris. It is what it is. I'll be a part of this city until the day I die. A bandage over a seeping wound."

She definitely sounded bitter now, and though the day was nondescript and the weather mild, it suddenly seemed to be on the verge of a storm. "It'll only be so as long as you allow it," he reminded her quietly.

They continued on in silence for a while as they made their way through the streets to Lowtown. He watched her familiar features pull into thought, lips pursed as she mulled over his words. "Fenris, why are you still here?" she asked him.

"The same reason you are," he replied.

"It's not the same for you, though," she argued quietly. "You have a family out there somewhere. Haven't you thought of going to look for them?"

He had thought of it; much more than he should have. "You know whatever 'family' Hadriana said I have is likely a trap, correct?"

"I don't know, Fenris. And you won't either if you never look."

He watched her for a moment, ducking into an alleyway behind her. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Of course not."

"Then I don't understand why you're asking."

She shrugged, frustrated. "I don't know. I just thought you'd want to find them if they really were out there. I thought you'd want to know for sure if it was a trick."

"I- I don't think it's that simple."

"Explain it to me, then."

He let out a terse breath through his nose. "It's just . . . why are we talking about this now?" he asked, unable to keep the hard edge out of his voice.

She shrugged. "I'm sorry."

He watched the unhappy curve of her mouth and felt instantly guilty. "I am also," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I have thought about it. I don't know. I'm absolutely sure it is a trap of some kind and so I'm not exactly eager to confront the situation."

"But do you think you will?"

He thought for a moment. "Yes, I suppose so."

"I'm not trying to force you into anything-"

"You're not. It's just that you are right. I will have to handle this eventually."

She was silent for a moment, coming to a stop in a puddle of dirty rainwater. "You don't have to confront it alone, you know."

"What?" he asked her, stunned.

"I mean. Look. You've been there through so much of my own nonsense. I know that-" she broke off suddenly, coloring, and he knew that she had been about to mention their disastrous night together. "I just mean that I'll be around if you need me."

He was so overcome by love for her that he couldn't speak. He'd go his entire life attempting to be worthy of what she gave to him so easily, and it took a concentrated effort to keep from pulling her into his arms. "Thank you, Hawke," he said instead, his voice strangled. "That's . . ."

"Come on," she said, sensing his discomfort. "I can hear Isabela tapping her foot from here."

It wasn't a long trek to where Isabela waited for them, arms crossed and looking for all the world as if she itched to leap from her own skin. She didn't brighten when she saw Hawke and Fenris approach; if anything, her expression hardened into resolve and he wondered briefly what had agitated her so.

"I was wondering if it'd take all day for you to get here," she said in an uncharacteristic display of annoyance.

"What's wrong with you?" Hawke asked, thinking along those same lines. "It's barely daybreak."

"I- no, don't distract me, I have to get this out," Isabela said. "Look, I might not have been entirely honest with you."

Though he should have known better, Fenris was surprised. They'd all formed a bond over the last years, and he'd thought that perhaps they were past the evasions. Hawke, for her part, was less surprised. "About what?"

"Ah- you know the relic, right? Well . . . I do know what it is. It's some relic of the Qunari's; it's why they're stuck here. They can't return without it."

"What kind of relic are we talking about here?"

"A book, if you can believe it. By one of their philosophers. Ceslun, Cousland . . ."

Fenris gaped. "Koslun?"

"That's the one."

Fenris could hardly speak for a moment, the gravity of the situation becoming quickly apparent. "Koslun is the most holy being of the Qun, and his works are sacred beyond measure," he said, suspicion dawning. "I imagine both the Qunari and the Tevinters are keen to take back what you've stolen."

"Why the Tevinters?" Hawke asked him.

"The Qunari and Tevinters have been at war for centuries. Acquiring the Tome of Koslun would be a blow against the Qunari that they might never recover from." He turned to Isabela, his eyes narrowing. "You've gotten yourself into quite a mess."

"Hold on," Hawke interrupted. "So if we get the tome and give it back to the Qunari, they would leave?"

"I suspect they would, yes."

"You can't be serious!" Isabela interjected. "I need the relic! If I don't Castillion will kill me! I'm talking about a serious life and death matter here!"

"This is already a serious life and death matter," Hawke said sharply. "It seems to me that all of this trouble and contention with the Qunari that has plagued this horrible city was your fault. If you hadn't stolen it, they wouldn't have been stuck here."

"That isn't fair, Hawke."

Hawke shook her head. "No, it isn't. How many people have died because of this conflict? How many more will die until it's resolved? Seamus, the Qunari patrols, the Saarebas, hundreds more; it makes me sick to think about it."

"So you're not going to help me?" Isabela's expression had become hard as a slate wall, her eyes glinting steel.

Fenris realized too late that Hawke balanced on the edge of her temper, and it had taken only that little question to push her over. "Maker, Isabela!" she shouted. "Can you think about someone aside from yourself for one foul minute?"

"If I don't think about myself, who else will?" Isabela retorted.

"How can you say that? I've broken my neck for you. For this whole city. I've worked myself into the ground solving your problems and being your friend. And now I learn that everything is your fault and the first thing you can think to ask me is whether I'm going to help you or not. And you don't see a problem with this?" Hawke demanded.

"I thought I would come to my friend for help," Isabela retorted. "We _are _friends, and friends help each other."

"You don't see me as a friend," Hawke said, shaking with anger. "You see me as a resource. When have you ever stuck out your neck for me, Isabela? Handing over this relic to the Qunari would solve a lot of problems and save a lot of lives, and yet you never even considered it. And what's more, you resent me for considering it! For refusing to ignore the big picture here!"

"The big picture is that Castillion is going to-"

"Screw Castillion! If he comes around making trouble, we'll give him some right back. You _know _this. You don't need the relic to stay alive, because you know that I'd reduce him to a smear on the floor if he so much as looked in your direction."

Isabela froze and swallowed her retort, looking somewhat cowed. "I guess I hadn't considered that," she said softly.

"I don't know why," Hawke bit back. "I break my neck for my friends because I care about you all. Sometimes against reason." She took a slow breath and let it out through her nose, pressing her lips together against her temper. "Can you just trust that I'll help you with Castillion? I promise you, the relic is not necessary to staying alive, okay?"

Isabela seemed to consider it, to Fenris's surprise. He'd never seen either Hawke or Isabela fight in all the years they'd known one another. He was struck again by the impending sense of change that loomed over him, making the back of his neck prick in unease.

"All right," she finally said. "We'll do it your way, Hawke."

Hawke sighed. "I'm sorry Isabela. I shouldn't take this out on you. It's just . . . I've been so frustrated lately."

"It's all right," Isabela said, and though she attempted an easy smile, Fenris noted that it did not quite reach her eyes properly. "Let's go."

They followed her through the streets of Lowtown, still curiously empty as the dawn lengthened and broke. They didn't speak; Isabela made no effort to explain her plan and Hawke made no effort to inquire after it. As for Fenris, he decided silence was for the best. He had no place in whatever argument brewed between them.

Though he and Isabela were friends – he marveled at the realization – he did not approve of what she'd done. She was one of the most important people he'd ever known, but the fact of the matter was that her actions were selfish and wrong. He saw them as the cause of both a fair amount of strife in the city, and also an amount of unhappiness with Hawke, and in his estimation that was dire.

Still, though, Isabela was a part of their motley group and had been for years. She'd been a light presence and an ear and a shoulder, as she'd said the night before. Though he was frustrated with her selfishness, he resolved to be more understanding. She'd made the effort to understand his own moping; he could do the same for her selfishness.

Isabela led them to an abandoned building on the edge of Lowtown, holding out her hand to slow them. "There's a man named Wall-Eyed Sam here. He has the relic."

"I assume then that he's the one who is wall-eyed?"

"Right," Isabela snorted. "Just be careful . . . something stinks about this."

So Isabela was feeling it too? The sense of impending change was becoming so unwieldy that Fenris had taken to casting a glance over his shoulder at regular intervals, nettled by the sensation.

Hawke nodded. "On your guard," she whispered and they pushed through the warehouse door.

He saw nothing but a haggard man cowering near the far corner, snapping his gaze about the room in fear. His eyes widened when they fell on Isabela and he took a tentative step forward, though never stopping his fearful scan of the room.

"Do you have the relic?" Isabela asked quickly.

"You got me money?"

"Yeah. Show me the relic."

"I want me money first."

"Maker's balls! Just get them out at the same time and exchange," Hawke snapped. "Let's try and make sure this doesn't take all damn day."

Isabela and Wall-Eyed Sam grumbled and sifted through their packs as Fenris cast a worried glance over to Hawke. It was very rare that she lose her temper at all; she was the most equitable, easy-going person he'd ever known and to hear her so short-tempered was odd. The back of his neck pricked again.

It all happened very suddenly. One moment Isabela and Wall-Eyed Sam were handing one another their spoils and the next a patrol of Tevinters broke through the back door with incredible violence. Contrary to shock, though, Sam looked as if he'd expected them to arrive much earlier.

"A trap," Fenris muttered to Hawke, who drew her blades.

"There's the relic, men," the leader of the Tevinters called, shaping a ball of fire between her hands. "Don't let the rat get away."

Wall-Eyed Sam obviously hadn't expected this betrayal, for he cried out in his anger and disbelief before sprinting for the door, relic still in hand.

"No!" Isabela shouted, pounding after him.

A ball of flame smashed into the wall where Isabela had been just seconds before and Hawke spun on the mage, snarling in anger. She flew into the thick of the Tevinters like a demon possessed; slicing, stabbing, gutting with a ferocity Fenris had never seen. It took him a full handful of seconds to run in after her, his greatsword already brought to bear and his body thrumming with lyrium.

They made short work of the Tevinters. Hawke didn't even bother to wipe her blades; before Fenris could catch his breath, she darted out of the warehouse and into the cool street, where the sun was finally beginning to rise.

They found Wall-Eyed Sam's corpse crumpled in the middle of the street, his throat slit. Isabela and the relic were nowhere to be found.

Hawke pressed her lips together and balled her shaking hands into fists, her eyes clenched shut. "I should have known," she said under her breath. "Why am I still surprised?"

Fenris was disgusted, furious; he absolutely should have known what was coming, and yet both he and Hawke had been taken for a ride from someone they considered a friend. "Once a thief, always a thief," he said bitterly.

She surprised him by wiping her eyes with one trembling hand. "Maybe I shouldn't try to expect the best in people anymore."

It startled him to hear such an admission from her. He suddenly realized that this was about much more than Isabela's betrayal; that it was possibly about everything that had plagued her in the last weeks. Her mother's death, his abandonment, and the constant demands of this city that constantly went unreturned. "Hawke . . ." he began, sick at himself.

But she cut him off. "Come on. I don't want to talk about it."

And just as with all things, he followed her, cowed into shamed silence.

Though Hawke usually made a point of avoiding Darktown – the misery there upset her more than she'd ever admit – she cut through its fetid streets in order to make good time to the Qunari compound. They didn't speak as they went. Fenris watched the shape of her as she moved; the tightness of her shoulder and neck, as if struggling to carry and impossible weight.

It wasn't exactly easy to forget that he wronged her, for he was a person prone to self-deprecation over his crimes, but it was easy to forget the gravity of what he'd done due to her care and acceptance. It was deeply upsetting to realize that what he'd done had affected her far worse than he'd hoped, that it had served as a cumulative struggle she bore in pestilential Kirkwall.

He found it very easy to hate himself, then.

He'd vowed so many times to give to her what she gave to him that it had become a constant mantra against the backdrop of his thoughts, and yet when it had become a challenge he'd run away, terrified.

No, that wasn't true, he argued with the realization. He'd left because he'd realized what a danger he was to her. He realized that he was little better than a weapon with a broken memory, a weapon that could be easily turned against what he loved. He'd left because he'd sooner suffer to keep her safe than suffer to be the cause for her death.

But a part of him knew this wasn't completely true. He'd been afraid also. He'd run away because of the gravity of what he'd realized in her, the weight and depth of all that was between them. He'd run away because it was vast and frightening and he could no more attribute understanding to it than he could the void.

He wondered if it was perhaps best that he leave. For all her attempts to pretend otherwise, his presence was painful to Hawke. There was still too much there between them. Perhaps there always would be.

Perhaps it was time to leave.

They made decent time to the Qunari compound; the sun was only a hand span over the surface of the lake, shimmering dully through the veil of clouds. Aveline was waiting for them, surrounded by a contingent of her best guards, her expression set and determined.

"Hawke, Fenris," she said by way of greeting. "Where is Isabela?"

"Gone," Hawke said shortly.

Fenris knew Aveline bore no love for Isabela – indeed, she'd probably even expected something like this would happen – but to her eternal credit she said nothing. "Are you ready?"

"Of course," Hawke said.

Aveline nodded and turned to the Qunari guard. "We are ready to see your Arishok now," she said.

"We will allow it, but not in the number you stand before us," the guard said, dark eyes narrowing.

Aveline frowned. It was an obvious tactic, and considering the tensions between Kirkwall and the Qunari, an uncomfortable one. But ever the diplomat, she acquiesced. "Very well. Hawke and I will go with only a small compliment of my guard," she said coolly. "Is this acceptable?"

"Yes. You may enter," the Qunari guard said, and he heaved open the heavy gate, holding it so they could pass through.

Fenris did not like this at all. That horrible feeling came over him again, this time so badly that it was as if some creature scraped its nails down his neck. He watched Hawke pass through the gate, struggling to keep himself from running after her, the demands of the Qunari be damned. Something was very wrong here.

But before the gate closed behind her, she turned to look at him over her shoulder, and her expression was full of meaning. _Stay. Watch my back _she seemed to say, and he nodded. The gate slammed between them in the next moment and she was gone, but he did not leave. He leaned against the sandstone wall, his hand never far from his sword.

Each second seemed to span a year. He and the Qunari guard stared at one another, and it struck Fenris that though the Qunari had never been exactly peaceable, they'd never been openly aggressive within the city walls. And yet, he could not deny that there was something subversively aggressive about this guard; he looked at Fenris as if waiting for the right moment to skewer him.

He was momentarily distracted by Anders, of all people; the mage sauntered through the docks with an expression of self-involved unconcern. "Have you seen Hawke?" he asked Fenris.

"She's with Aveline," Fenris said unwillingly. "They're meeting with the Qunari."

"About?"

"I don't know."

Anders frowned. "She didn't tell me about that."

"She doesn't tell you everything, mage," Fenris snapped. "Nor is she required to."

Anders rounded on him, abruptly incensed. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Do you lack ears or are you merely stupid? It means exactly what it means; she isn't required to brief you on her every thought and action."

He didn't exactly regret baiting the mage – Anders had been spoiling for a fight for some time – but this was not the place for it. Yet Anders took a step toward Fenris, completely oblivious to the impending sense of danger that had hounded Fenris all day. "What would you know about it?" Anders snapped. "You think you know more than I do? Even after what you did?"

Fenris bit back his temper. "Anders, it would not only please me but the entire world if you would just shut up," he said shortly.

"Am I inconveniencing you?" Anders said, his voice ripe with sarcasm.

"You inconvenience everyone. Please, just shut up."

A shout came from beyond the gates, and Fenris dimly heard the words '_Vinek kathas'. _There was screaming before it was viciously cut short, and in that moment the guard drew his blade and charged.

Anders had let his guard down while they argued, but Fenris was ready; he shoved the mage aside and drew his own blade, his body a lyrium flame, and plunged his fist into the Qunari's chest before another word was spoken.

Anders recovered just in time to dodge another Qunari; he stretched out his hand and sent a wave of them crashing into the opposite wall before hurling a cascade of ice indiscriminately in their direction, skewering them all.

Above their heads, a ball of fire bloomed and smashed into Lowtown, trailing smoke and curling flame. Another hit, and another, until it was as if the entire city above them was a banner of fire; buildings lit from the inside out like hellish lanterns.

Fenris pounded toward the heavy gate, struggling to heave it open. Whatever had happened started with Hawke and the Arishok, and suddenly he couldn't breathe, terrorized by the thought that she might have been the first to die, the first to fall after so much and yet all for nothing.

He needn't have worried. Hawke and Aveline wrenched open the gate and tore out into the street. "Come on!" she screamed at him, her hand stretched toward him, and he was momentarily so relieved that he forgot he stood amid a burning Kirkwall and the bodies of those who had tried to kill him seconds before; all he could think of was kissing her.

But the moment passed and the sound of screaming shook him from his reverie; he pounded after her as they streaked up the steps to Lowtown, now almost completely consumed by fire and the Qunari raiders.

"What the hell happened?" Anders screamed at them.

"I'm guessing our friends from Par Vollen have decided to take the city," Fenris said dryly.

"You got it," Hawke said, her hand to her chest. "Some elves killed a guard and then took shelter in the compound as converts," she spat, disgusted. "The Arishok refused to turn them over, and demanded that we return the relic to him. Somehow he found out about that, which is fantastic. So now the Qunari are taking over."

"Any bright ideas?" Anders asked.

"Try to rally whatever surviving guard I have left," Aveline said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "From there mount a defense."

"That will take too long," Hawke said. "This city is huge and also a mess. We need to contain this situation now."

"What would you suggest, then?" Aveline said tersely. "We don't have what he wants. The whore made off with the only thing we would have been able to use as a bargaining chip."

"I believe the Arishok will try to make his way up to the Keep," Fenris cut in quickly before they could argue. "He'll round up the nobles and either convert them or kill them, which will allow him to take the city with more ease."

"If we defeat the Arishok, what will the rest of the Qunari do?" she asked him quickly.

"They'll surrender or they'll fight, though without the Arishok it will not be a challenge to defeat them."

Hawke set her lips in a determined line, and he knew that though it wasn't her problem she'd fight with everything she had to put the city to rights. A bandage of a seeping wound, she'd said. "Then we go to the Keep."

It took them most of the day to fight through the city. The Qunari had wasted no time in fanning out and taking the city by force. Most of the homes they passed were empty and Fenris realized with a sinking feeling that they'd already been rounded up and deposited in the Keep. The Qunari were nothing if not brutally efficient.

But they hadn't properly counted on Hawke. They might be efficient, but Hawke was deadly in her own right and she was flanked by her most skilled allies. She cut through the occupation like a hot blade through lard, as sharp and dangerous as he'd ever seen her. She was a scythe, culling without thought and without mercy.

Fenris had known her for more than four years, but he'd never seen her like this. Before, combat had almost been a game. She'd known that she was skilled and her opponent wasn't, and she'd fix them with a charming grin as she cut the stomach out of them, but now she'd become grim and determined, fierce and feral. Not that she'd taken joy in killing, but she'd taken joy in survival. Now she had lost even that.

He watched her fight and realized that for all she tried to pretend otherwise, she was broken. And he'd been instrumental in breaking her.

It was nearing dusk when they finally made it to Hightown. Above their heads, the roiling stormclouds finally cracked and broke, upending torrents of rain on the burning, broken city.

"One less thing to fix," Aveline muttered, blinking up in the rain. Fenris hardly heard her.

Where it had been a struggle to fight through Lowtown, the streets of Hightown were suspiciously empty. Bodies littered the streets in some out of the way corners, but for the most part, it was as if every living soul had completely disappeared. The Arishok had likely already rounded up the nobles; Fenris wondered if any of them still survived.

Hawke's hand shout out, gesturing wildly for quiet. In front of them, shrouded by the rain, stood a group of people by the gates. Fenris could hear them softly arguing and the sound of rain striking plate armor.

"Not Qunari," Fenris noted.

"It's the Knight-Commander," Aveline said, shocked. "And the First Enchanter Orsino."

"What the hell are they doing?" Hawke hissed and she strode forward, not even bothering to identify herself as friendly.

The First Enchanter noticed her first, his pale brows shooting up into his hairline. "Serah Hawke?" he said. "We thought you'd been captured with the rest of the nobility!"

"Yes, it is a relief to see you were not," the Knight Commander, narrowing her ice-blue eyes at the First Enchanter.

Hawke ignored the pleasantries. "This city is on the verge of being conquered. Do you want to tell me why you're standing out here arguing instead of helping those who have been captured?" she snapped.

The Knight Commander looked as if she was about to breathe fire. "Now, see here-"

"She's right, Knight Commander," said Orsino. "There will be time enough to argue later."

"There won't be if you keep at it!" Hawke hissed.

"Apologies, Serah Hawke," the Knight Commander said stiffly. "We were only attempting to discern the best way to breaking into the Keep."

Hawke peered around them to the top of the stairs, where a heavily fortified contingent of Qunari stood, glaring out into the rain. "What's to argue about?" she said. "If you create a distraction, I can make it through."

"I would prefer if we put the fate of this city in the hands of a true citizen," the Knight Commander sniffed.

"With all due respect, Knight Commander, I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice in who saves your city," Hawke said sarcastically. "First Enchanter; could you provide what I need?"

"I would be glad to," said the First Enchanter. "Allow me."

And without another word to the Knight Commander, who stood sputtering amid her Templar guard, he strode past the gate and into the courtyard. He drew his staff slowly and shaped a ball of flame between his hands, bright enough to be seen through the torrential rain. The Qunari shouted when they spotted the flame and charged, shrieking their battle cries. The First Enchanter did not balk at the onslaught, however; he cast flame after flame into the Qunari's ranks, leaving the door to the Keep open and unguarded.

Hawke didn't hesitate; she sprinted through the courtyard and up the steps, slipping a little in the rain. She had pried open the heavy doors and disappeared within them before the Knight Commander could say another word.

Inside the Keep was nearly unrecognizable. Bodies were strewn everywhere – Kirkwall guard and Qunari alike – and yet as they made their way deeper into the keep, there was no one to meet them. The muffled din from the throne room echoed through the otherwise silent halls, and beside him Aveline swallowed hard. Hawke, however, did not blink or stumble; she pushed forward like a woman possessed by her purpose.

Fenris marveled at her. This wasn't her home or her problem, and yet how many times would she put herself in danger to make things right for this place? He wondered if she'd ever be able to walk away. He wondered if he'd be able to do the same.

Hawke did not pause in front of the throne room door; she shoved it open so hard that they slammed against the inside wall, the sound of it shocking the entire room into silence. It was just as they had suspected; the Arishok was there, flanked by his elite guard, and before them was every noble in the city of Kirkwall. The body of the Viscount was slumped near the Arishok's feet, and Fenris noticed a half-second too late that it was missing its head.

"Hawke," the Arishok said. "It is good that you are here, Bassalit-an."

"You realize I cannot show you mercy for what you've done, Arishok," Hawke said, slowly drawing her blades.

"What I've done is answer the demand of the Qun," the Arishok said. "We are stuck here due to the selfishness of one of your own, and I am not longer able to close my eyes to the corruption that plagues your city. We do you a service, even if you are too blind to see it."

"You lied to me," said Hawke. "You told me fixing this place was not the demand of the Qun."

"A lie of my own ignorance. I could no more allow this festering pustule of a city to continue than I could forsake the Qun," the Arishok growled. "We came for the Tome of Koslun. We will stay for your submission."

"You know you will not have it," Hawke said. Behind her, Fenris drew his blade.

"Then we will fight, Baasalit-an," said the Arishok. "Prepare your men."

"No," Hawke said, and she took a step forward. Gasps cut the room. "You and I will fight alone."

"I cannot," the Arishok said. "You are a woman, you are not-"

If it was solely up to Fenris, he would have volunteered in Hawke's place and been grateful for the chance to fight in her stead. But he knew her and her skill. He knew her resolve. So he chose to honor it. "You have granted this woman Baasalit-an," Fenris interrupted, and he stepped forward so he stood beside Hawke. "By this admission, she now has the right to challenge you."

The Arishok paused, as if noticing Fenris for the first time. "You know our ways," he said quietly.

"I know that respect is hard won," he returned, "but it also earns privilege."

No one spoke. The silence was oppressive, cut only by the sound of wounded weeping and the slow, steady breath of the woman who stood at his side.

"Very well," said the Arishok. "If I defeat you, Hawke, Kirkwall will submit to the Qun."

"And if I defeat you," Hawke said, "the Qunair will leave Kirkwall and not take another life."

The Arishok took a hard breath through his nose. "It shall be. Come, then. Let us decide this."

The nobles cleared away from the center of the room, and though Fenris expected them to whisper in surprise, none of them spoke a word. They all watched Hawke as if beholding a god come to walk the earth. Fenris found he could commiserate.

The Arishok drew his weapon and squared off against Hawke, who stood opposite him. She mirrored his slow advance perfectly; one step to the left for each of his to the right. She looked so small compared to him and Fenris suddenly remembered the sight of her in bed, curled up against him, so small and soft and _human- _an errant step, a well-aimed strike and she'd be dead before he could draw his own blade-

The Arishok was the first to attack; he struck out with such power that Fenris feared she'd be cloven in two before his eyes, but she easily stepped out of the path of the blade, ducking under and slicing the Arishok across the chest before dancing away.

And then he realized her strategy; the Arishok was huge and powerful, but each of his blows were ponderously slow and Hawke was fast. The Arishok charged and she danced out of his path at the very last moment, her cunning blades flashing out and striking him before he could retaliate. For each of his blows, she would wait until it was almost too late to dodge before stabbing and slicing her way out of the Arishok's attack.

Fenris felt oddly as if he couldn't breathe. Each time the Arishok turned to face Hawke his heart would falter and skip, only to pound in earnest when she dodged the path of his blades. He realized dimly that each of the Arishok's weapons were nearly the size of her entire body.

The fight wore on, impossibly. For all his size and power, the Arishok refused to tire. And for all her cunning speed and skill, she began to falter. The Arishok brought down his dual axes and this time it was too fast for her to completely dodge; she jumped away but stumbled, sprawling only a few ineffectual feet away from the Arishok.

He was too much of a stoic to smile, but Fenris felt the Arishok's satisfaction radiate from him like the sun. Fenris realized belatedly that his body had since lapsed into the lyrium burn, and he was mere heartbeats away from diving into the fight and plunging his fist into the Arishok's heart.

Hawke staggered to her feet, but she was too slow, too slow; the Arishok caught her in the leg with one of his immense axes, rending flesh and crushing bone. But Hawke did not cry out; he saw fury and feral determination coalesce in her eyes, a heady, potent drug that suffused her entire body. She was rigid in both agony and anger. She charged at the Arishok with her blades point-out.

No one made a sound as those blades sunk into Qunari flesh. She'd used his satisfaction as a distraction and smashed past his meager defense just when he'd needed it most. She'd buried herself hilt deep into the Arishok's chest.

She and the Arishok staggered back as one creature, she still attached to her blades, still sunk so deeply into his chest that the points of her blades stuck out of his back. He gasped as he hit the ground – a wet, choking sound – and before he died Fenris heard him whisper into Hawke's ear; _One day, we shall return._

Her leg was a crushed and ruined mess, leaking blood faster than he believed possible, but she stood regardless. She looked down on the body of her defeated foe with inscrutable eyes. Before Fenris could rush to her side, however, she knelt at the Arishok's side and swiped her fingers in the gaping wounds in his chest.

Slowly, she drew her blood-soaked fingers across the bridge of her nose. And when she staggered back to her feet, ignoring the stunned and silent nobles, Fenris realized that for the first time he looked into her familiar, beloved face and saw a stranger look back.


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Huge thanks to Rissalena516, BrisingrMithrim, BearMage, Matok, Peres, Degreebound205, Dira11, Sepsis, DKAllayna, Jedi Kacee, Crystaldraco, Wasagi, BuriedBeneath, CreatedInFyre7, LifeandFire25, wintryone, NoMadKa, and R2s Muse for your absolutely wonderful and inspiring reviews, and to everyone else who has read, faved and followed this story! **

**Apologies for the delay on this chapter; my mother in law recently suffered from a collapsed lung and now is unable to come to the impending wedding, so there was lots of sadness and stress as we've tried to deal with this. Hopefully I'll be able to write more soon.  
**

**If you read and liked it or have some suggestions, drop me a review; I love hearing from you all. Thanks and enjoy!  
**

Fenris had the sense that the world no longer operated based on logic. It should not have been possible for Hawke to get to her feet and face the remaining Qunari soldiers with her leg hanging at such a strange angle, and yet it was so.

"You will honor the result of the duel," she said to them, slipping a little in the fast-growing pool of blood at her feet, and he marveled at the steadiness of her voice.

The Qunari acknowledged her as one and they filed out of the throne room in a somber procession. Two bore the body of the Arishok on their shoulders, flanked by the remaining city guard.

Hawke said nothing to the nobles, who had finally begun to whisper among themselves, still unsure as to what had just happened. She pushed through the reverent throng and though Fenris knew she must have been in terrible pain, she did not stumble until she had strode out of the throne room.

Anders was the first to reach her. He knelt at her side, producing a linen bandage from his pack and wrapping it tightly above her knee, to slow the bleeding. Slow, not heal; Fenris felt his panic and anger coalesce into a nearly physical sensation.

"What are you doing?" Fenris hissed. "Heal her!"

"Not here," Anders said. His voice was so calm as to be nearly inflectionless, and Fenris felt his panicked temper spin even further out of control. She was so pale; her skin seemed to be nearly translucent, so that he could almost see her faltering pulse flutter in her temples.

He was about to furiously insist when Anders swept her into his arms and bore her quickly through the ruined Keep, leaving Fenris no choice but to follow, useless and hovering like a gnat in summer heat.

It took a moment to realize Anders's concern. He was a mage, and though Fenris suspected the gentry were understanding of Hawke's strange and suspicious companions, there was a line that they would not permit to be crossed. He simultaneously understood the logic of this thought and hated it; while Anders worried about his standing in the city, Hawke grew paler and paler, her injured leg hanging at a strange angle, leaving a trail of blood behind them.

Though Hawke's estate was not far from the Keep, each step seemed to span the length of an hour. Through his stress strange details broke through. He could hear shouting in the distance, though somehow not malign. Perhaps the city guard, attempting to put out the fires. The Qunari must have truly been routed, then.

Fenris threw open the estate door for Anders and before he could say a word, the mage had set Hawke down and run his instantly glowing hands over her leg, binding the cloven flesh as easily as breathing.

"Better?" he asked her.

She didn't reply. Her breath was coming in choking gasps and her lips were mashed together in a tight line. A muscle leaped in her jaw. Fenris realized she had gone into shock.

He lifted her again and brought her further into the estate, setting her on top of one of Sandal's enchantment tables, knocking away errant rules and oddities. "I have to check your bones, now," he said in a strange, almost conversational tone. "All right?"

Hawke nodded, hyperventilating. Sweat poured from her brow.

Anders eased her leg out of her boot and tore away the blood-sodden tatters of her breeches up to her thigh before tossing them aside.

The wound was a grotesque sight. Even though her flesh had been closed, Fenris found he could not look away. There was no logic in it; the Arishok's weapons had seemed to be larger than Hawke herself, yet the wound was no longer than the length of her calf, a vivid red line crossing up and over her shattered shin. It was pure luck that she still had her leg at all. It was beyond fortuitous that she hadn't bled to death right there in the Keep, pinned to the floor like vermin.

Anders prodded the wound and a high whine came through Hawke's clenched lips. Under her skin, Fenris could clear see the bone shift. His stomach rolled, more at the sound of her pain than the horrific sight.

"Get out of here!" Anders shouted at him as Hawke's scream broke through her teeth.

Her chest heaved. "No!" she shouted at Anders. "I want him to stay." Her eyes were wide and desperate, and she reached toward him with one badly trembling hand.

He forgot their careful lines when he looked at her; so pale that she was nearly translucent, dark hair sticking to her forehead in sweaty tufts. He was suddenly overcome by her, relief and love and fear. He took her reaching hand and didn't make a sound when she squeezed so hard he dimly suspected his own would break.

It was one of the most difficult nights of Fenris's life. It seemed to take Anders many hours to properly set Hawke's broken leg, and by the end her screams had faded into hoarse sobs. The sound of them set Fenris's teeth on edge; he suspected he would hear her screams in his nightmares for the rest of his days.

Not long after Anders bathed her broken leg, he set out for his Lowtown clinic, intent on some potions brewed specifically for the healing of shattered bones.

"So she'll be back on her feet, then?" Fenris asked Anders as he pushed open the door.

"Eventually, I hope," Anders replied. He was hoarse and exhausted.

"What do you mean 'eventually'?" Fenris demanded.

Anders looked at Fenris as if he were stupid. "You can't mend bones through magic."

"Why the hell not?" Fenris hissed. "You mend flesh well enough."

"I suppose you've never noticed that bones and flesh are different? It's easy to heal flesh. Bones resist it. It would take the concentrated effort of an entire Circle to mend a fracture, not to mention a clean break like what Hawke has. Really, all we can do is set the bone, give her the tonic, and ease the process," Anders explained impatiently.

"So you're saying that it's merely beyond your own skill, not impossible?"

Anders let out an irritated breath. "I don't suppose you've ever seen your master heal a broken bone?"

"Former master," Fenris corrected, furious. But as he thought about it, he realized the mage was correct; either Danarius had never bothered to heal something of that magnitude, or it was beyond his skill.

"Right. If you'll excuse me," Anders said, and with that he strode through the door and let it thud behind him with finality.

Fenris stared at the door for a long while. He wanted nothing more than to go back to Hawke's side and stay there until she sent him away, however soon or long that would be. But there was a part of him that feared, just as always. He could still hear her screams, the feel of her hand vice-like on his. The presence of the mage and the mention of Danarius had reminded him why he'd chosen to stay away.

But he heard a low moan drift down the stairs and he'd set out for her room before he was consciously aware of it.

She was sprawled in her bed, wounded leg sticking out over her tousled blankets. A fine sheen of sweat colored her pale face. He thought he saw the wandering path of her veins beneath her temples, shuddering weakly. "Fenris," she whispered.

"H-hey," he said lamely, suspended by equal parts concern and fear.

She blinked and pushed away a lock of sweaty hair. "Will you stay with me?" she asked in that painfully hoarse voice, as if she had spent the last year screaming for her life.

He'd known it would be like this. He'd known full well that he couldn't deny her anything she asked him. He'd known that he would leap at the chance to begin repaying her all she'd given him, despite his crimes and failures. So he acquiesced. "Yeah," he said, setting his sword by the door and taking a seat beside her. "I'll stay."

* * *

And he did. He stayed by her side as she slowly recovered, as the city slowly righted itself after the disastrous Qunari attack. He stayed, though sometimes he could hardly believe it of himself, that he'd chosen to ignore his own stupid fear in the face of something far more desperate and dire.

Those first days seemed to be cast with the shimmering pall of delirium. She slipped in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently whether asleep or awake. Anders remained during those first days as well, and for once their constant argument ceased in the face of Hawke's suffering.

"She's lost too much blood," Anders muttered almost to himself. "Infection." He ducked in and out of the estate at regular intervals, fetching more of his potions and tipping them down Hawke's throat to mixed success. Even in her state she was stubborn, spitting them up onto the floor in mottled arcs.

"Hawke," Fenris said, leaning close. "Stop."

And despite her delirium, she obeyed. After that, she would only take medicine from Fenris.

The days slipped by, a nearly unchanging procession of washed-out sunrises and sunsets fading into one another. Fenris slept little and hardly ate, and though he was not religious, he found himself curled against his gnawing, draining fear, praying desperately to any random god that would choose to listen. Why wasn't she recovering? Why did she grow smaller in her bed, as if drained by magic?

In his anguish, Fenris began to suspect Anders. There was a logical, pragmatic part of his thinking that knew for all his faults, Anders cared for Hawke and suffered along with her. But as the days wore on it became more difficult to hear logic. He suspected Anders of poison, of blood magic. He was an abomination, wasn't he? He would go to any lengths to secure more power for himself. Hadn't he once said the Tevinters had the right idea?

Before his growing suspicions could motivate him to confront the mage, though, Hawke finally began to improve. Slowly her delirium faded and she began to strengthen. She began to take meals – little more than broth at first, moving up to more solid food as the days passed. Her color returned, if only slightly; just a faint blush on her pale skin, but it was enough to loosen the fist of fear that had slowly made it impossible to breathe.

Anders came by less and less after that. Perhaps he sensed he wasn't needed, and that Hawke preferred the presence of Fenris. The realization seemed to curdle something in him, made him rot inside like a corpse left out in the sun. He retreated from everyone and holed up in his clinic, immersing himself in his work as a healer.

Hawke did not seem to notice the mage's absence. She drifted in and out of true sleep, waking at odd hours to find him reading by the fire. She watched him silently for a long moment, and he only noticed her when she shifted slightly, rustling the blankets.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm dreaming," she said softly.

"Why?"

"I don't remember it all so clearly," she replied. "I see the Arishok charging at me, so huge that I can't see anything else until he's passed. I remember how painful your face was. I see you here now and I just wonder if I'm dreaming." She paused. "I wonder if I'm dead."

"If you're dreaming, then I must be as well," he said to her.

"I thought you don't dream?"

He was silent for a moment. "Sometimes I do."

She didn't press him. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"I can't remember," he answered honestly.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to, Fenris. Maker, you look awful," she chided.

"I want to stay," he heard himself say. "You asked me to."

"I did, didn't I?" She laughed under her breath, still so weak. "That was a red day. I don't even remember the pain. Do you?"

He didn't tell her how he'd agonized when she'd been wounded, how the world had seemed to shudder to a stop and it had been impossible to think or even breathe. He didn't tell her that it had taken every bit of his willpower to keep from rushing into the duel and finishing the Arishok with his bare hands, frothing and terrible with rage. He didn't tell her that he'd suffered as she had in the last days, praying desperately that she would live when it seemed that she would not. He didn't tell her that he loved her.

He said nothing, but these truths were obvious regardless.

* * *

It took Hawke only two weeks to begin to chafe under the exile of her injury. Anders had clearly instructed that she remain on bedrest for two to six months. "It's bad luck you broke your leg," he told her. "Those take the longest to heal." But she resisted his instruction. She began to hobble around her home with a makeshift crutch to the chagrin of everyone she knew.

It was just as well that she began to long for her old life, for her old life seemed to long for her. Citizens of Kirkwall made a pilgrimage to her estate in droves, nobles and the poor alike. When Fenris and Bodhan turned them away, they comforted themselves by leaving lavish trinkets and gifts outside her door, and there were soon so many that they needed to be cleared away on a daily basis.

Hawke viewed this all with her customary glibness, though Fenris detected a note of unhappiness in her eyes. She ordered the lavish gifts distributed to the denizens of Lowtown and no amount of arguing otherwise would persuade her. "I don't need them," she said firmly. "I have enough."

It did not take long for the nobles to petition the Knight-Commander to make Hawke their city Champion. Fenris suspected the Knight-Commander only acquiesced to facilitate her transition into the Viscount's role. Hawke, for her part, viewed the whole affair with dismissive sarcasm.

"The Cripple Champion," she muttered under her breath. "Fitting, don't you think?"

"You shouldn't talk like that," Fenris admonished her, startled by her bitterness.

"Why not?"

"You will walk again," he reminded her forcefully. "This is temporary."

She turned away from him. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"

Fenris had hoped beyond logic that her odd mood from the last months would fade as she watched the city band together to praise her for her sacrifice and skill. He thought that accepting their thanks for defeating a threat they were too weak to excise themselves would give her some cheer, but if anything it seemed to pull her deeper into her melancholy.

He realized he knew the reason. This was just one more thing the city would demand of her – protection. They'd made her a Champion and instead of viewing it as a reward, she saw it as a punishment, another chain binding her here. "I'll rest from this city when I'm dead," she had told him the day of the attack, and suddenly it seemed that her proclamation had been startlingly prophetic.

So while she recovered, he became her guard. It was a role he was already intimately familiar with, for his days as another man's shield occupied nearly half his existing memory. But where before he had been forced to protect Danarius under threat, for Hawke he took up his former mantle willingly. Proudly, even. He had seen her unspoken need of solitude and leapt at the first chance to assure it.

He positioned himself between the frothing citizens of Kirkwall and Hawke like an unmovable stone. He denied everyone, from the lowest wraith of Lowtown to the Knight-Commander herself. There was nothing that could move him; not pleading nor threats nor bribes.

He was so adamant in his role as her guard that he gained a reputation, whispered in frustrated voices through every tavern and home in Kirkwall. "The Guard Dog," they called him. "The Glowing Hound." "That Knife-eared Mutt." He let each colloquial name roll off his back like water and learned to take a vindictive bit of pleasure at the sound of them. They were affirmation. They were proof he was doing his job.

* * *

It had been a long and irritating day as Hawke's guard, some months later. The summer was in full, blistering effect; the streets shimmering wetly, shifting like something out of the Fade. He'd hoped that the oppressive heat would keep the nobles at bay but if anything they were more insistent than ever before. He realized they'd probably had the same idea he had and when they'd seen him at the door, they'd bypassed flattery and bribery and launched right into cursing.

He only had to light the lyrium in his skin to silence their prattling and send them scurrying back into their estates. Easy, he supposed, but still tiresome. It was a relief when the sun finally sank beyond the horizon and the world became cool and dark.

Fenris slid inside and pulled the door quickly shut behind him, leaning against it for a few moments. His skin felt raw – sunburned, probably. Even the top of his head hadn't escaped the vicious onslaught of the sun. His skin grew darker in the summer, closer to the dusky tones found near Rivain.

He thought of Isabela, then. None of them had seen or heard from her since the day of the Qunari attack, the day she'd abandoned them to their fates. Hawke still refused to speak of her, choosing to pretend that she hadn't existed at all. It was more complicated for Fenris. He found it difficult to write off all the good she'd done over the years. It made it harder to hate her, and yet harder to forgive her.

"Fenris?" came Hawke's voice from the next room.

"Yes."

"What are you doing?" He heard smirking laughter in her voice.

He let out a long sigh. "Resting."

"Come rest in here."

He pushed away from the door and trudged into the main hall. Hawke was curled in a chair facing the fire and reading a book, her leg propped on a stool. She smiled up at him when he entered, and the sight of it made his traitor heart falter. "How were the vultures?" she asked him as he collapsed into the chair beside her.

"Insistent."

"Poor Fenris. Eat something?"

He shook his head. "Sleep."

"Sleep? What a waste; I've waited all day to talk to you."

"Sorry," he said, his eyes drifting closed.

She huffed. "Are you only going to use one-word answers now?"

He smirked. "No."

"Fine. Be difficult. I'll just keep reading my book."

There was silence as he struggled to keep his curiosity unspoken. He opened his eyes to see her smirking and he knew that she had laid the bait intentionally. He squinted over to her lap and the book in her hands but she was one step ahead of him, flattening the cover against her legs. He sighed again, this time in defeat. "What are you reading?"

"Something Varric brought me," she returned, her satisfied grin widening. "He wrote a book about me."

"Are you serious?" He sat up straighter, craning to get a better look.

"Sadly, yes. You know Varric; always with an ear to the ground. There was a demand for the exciting tale of Hawke, so he provided."

"So how much is truth and how much is wild fabrication?"

She chuckled. "It's almost like reading about a completely different person using my name."

"Ah."

"You can read it, if you like. I think you'd find it amusing."

"I'm sure I would. Might pass the time spent guarding your door better."

"Varric told me a new one of your nicknames, today," she said slyly. Earlier, he'd let Varric through, much to the furious wailing of the nobles. "They've been calling you Dumb Dog."

He rolled his eyes. "I don't really understand why they stick to dog names."

"Oh, you know. Because you're a guard dog, I guess? They're not very creative," Hawke said dismissively.

"Apparently not."

They fell into companionable silence. He watched her as she read, her beautiful grey eyes flickering with amusement as she read Varric's book. He watched her full lips curl into a smile, her chipped tooth winking like a star. He was here every day, guarding her door, talking late into the night, and yet still he missed her so badly it had become a kind of physical ache, twined with the beat of his own heart.

He considered his self-imposed exile as he watched her. He suspected long ago that the world no longer operated on logic, and it had indeed become so. He separated himself from out of a misguided sense of duty to keep her safe, mingled with that same choking fear that was as much a part of him as his own lyrium-marked skin. He exiled himself out of the desire to keep her safe, for always in the back of his thoughts was that looming specter bearing the shape and voice of Danarius. It guarded a closet of bones in his thoughts. The bones of the Fog Warriors, the bones of Tam. The bones of . . .

All it had taken was the word of the ghost for Fenris to reach out and crush the hearts of those he loved. No amount of freedom or separation would change this; he would never be free as he desired. Perhaps it had been the result of the ritual, an even more subtle binding magic, turning Danarius's wishes into Fenris's actions, as if he were a marionette unaware of its strings. Regardless of the source, he would not risk it.

And yet as he looked at Hawke curled into her chair, the ache in his chest grew so impossible that he had to actively restrain himself. Those traitorous impulses were always there, chained as they were in his thoughts; the instinct to fold her in his arms, to kiss her, to unleash the torrent of what he felt like a dam breaking its banks.

She turned away from her book, and when he met her gaze he felt his heart shudder and pause. "Fenris?"

"What is it?"

She didn't speak immediately, seeming to form a difficult thought. "I wanted to thank you."

"For?"

"For doing what you've done the last few months. Staying here, keeping the vultures away."

He swallowed, uncomfortable. "Ah. Well, you're welcome."

She wasn't deterred though. "I mean it. I've just been . . . so odd lately. I've wanted to get away from Kirkwall and just leave them to their fates, even though I know it's wrong. And as horrible as it sounds, being laid up here with a busted leg and you guarding the door has been a little like that vacation you're always telling me to take."

He frowned. "It's not a good sign when a dire injury is more a relief to you than an inconvenience."

"I know. Because it's a sign they abuse my goodwill, right? I know what you're going to say, remember? I read your mind."

"Well, that's a relief," he said sourly. "What a chore it is to express myself."

"Don't be cross," she admonished, smirking at his temper. "I'm just saying . . . I would have rather had a vacation somewhere far away, where you didn't have to guard the door, but I'll take what I can get, you know? I'm not the kind of person that turns their nose up at what I've got."

"Isn't that part of the problem?" Fenris pointed out. "Maybe you deserve to be a little demanding."

She smiled ruefully. "You always say that."

"I say it because it's true."

"To you, anyway."

He frowned. "I don't want to have this argument today."

"So then just agree with me, for once."

"Fine," he said shortly. "You should take what this greedy, grabbing city can spare of you. Even if that means you'll only have time to yourself when you're injured or dead. Of course. Exactly like you say."

"Fenris," she warned.

He mashed his lips shut against the tirade that threatened to burst from him. In truth, he hated Kirkwall all the more since Hawke's injury. It wasn't enough that this pestilential city constantly beset her with a thousand tiny demands, now they relied on her as their Champion, the sole arbiter of their protection and needs. It was no more an honor than it was to be a slave.

"Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you," she said gently.

"It's fine. Forget about it."

"Come on. Don't be a child."

"Maker forbid."

"I'll keep asking until you tell me."

"Be my guest."

She clucked her tongue, and he was surprised to see traces of temper in her eyes. "Has anyone ever told you that you're irredeemably reticent?"

He rounded on her. "Reticent? Fine. I'm angry at Kirkwall. I hate that they can't seem to go a day without demanding you get back to your feet and resume fixing their city. I've come to accept their selfishness, but I really hate that you allow them to behave so."

"Wha-"

"You let them order you about, regardless of what you want or what's actually best for you. You bend to their wishes and demands, you clean up their messes, you treat this place as if you owe them some inescapable debt, when you're not even of this city – a fact that some are all too eager to remind you."

"Fenris-"

"I'm angry because they treat you like a slave!" he shouted over her, leaping to his feet.

She paused, looking up at him with wide, beautifully understanding eyes. "So that's what this is about," she said softly.

"I would know it anywhere," he said, pacing, his hands balled into trembling fists. "I lived it."

"Fenris, I'm not doing this out of compulsion. I'm not being forced, or even asked. I'm the Cripple Champion because I want to be," she said, that strange bitter smirk spreading over her face.

"Stop calling yourself that!" He rounded on her. "Just- stop it. You say you do it because you want to be, but you don't consider your own needs or safety above these selfish cretins that populate this terrible place. They're all too happy to sling you with their problems, and you're all too happy to let them. That isn't right."

"Not everyone is a snotty noble, Fenris," she said, brow arching. "There are some – usually those of Lowtown – that are grateful for what I can do for them."

"That's different."

"No, not really. It's a part of the issue." Her smile faded and she became serious. "Fenris, if I wasn't a Champion of Kirkwall, I would be out doing the same thing I do here for the world at large. In fact, it may come to that someday. It doesn't make me a slave; it makes me a person capable of affecting change and willing to do so."

Fenris tried to bite back the rest of his tirade – the deeper, primordial fear that had twisted the way he watched her – but it was to no avail. "I watched you nearly die, Hawke," he said, hands shaking. "I watched you fight the Arishok with a broken leg, and even then none of those cowards stepped forward to help you. Had you died, they would have probably turned to Aveline to save their sorry hides. I – I can't-"

"Fenris . . . "

"I can't do it. How long will it be until something else comes for the city and they wail for their Champion to save them? How many days or months or years until I have to watch you square off with another invincible monster, just a breath away from striking you dead? I can't do it."

His eyes burned and he looked away from her, from the look of unimaginable compassion that made her face lovely as the sun. He was suddenly so close to the brink and unsure as to how he got there. He kept such careful watch over his words, bound and chained to his tongue that the sudden lack of them left him feeling slightly drunk, unsure.

He heard her struggle to her feet and he broke out of his thoughts. "Don't," he said. "It's fine."

She relented, falling back into her seat and wincing. "I suppose it would be cheap to assure you that I'll never die?"

He snorted. It was like her to diffuse tension with humor. "You could try," he said, playing along. "I don't think I would believe you."

"We'll see." She didn't speak for a moment. "I'm sorry I worried you."

"Don't apologize. Everything worries me."

She smirked. "That certainly is true. I'm still sorry."

He watched her, the low light of the fire playing against her beloved features, and he wished that there was no Danarius, no closet of bones, no fear of phantom marionette strings. He wished he was regular and boring, and free to love the remarkable woman who sat beside him, the only person he'd ever cared to love.

She was so good, he marveled. She would live her entire life struggling to improve the world and the people who lived it. She would rush headlong into whatever danger awaited her and though she wouldn't always do so with a cheerful smile, she would meet those demons regardless. She was free and with her freedom she chose to serve. There was nothing more powerful than that.

He wanted to do the same. He wanted to be free to be at her side through whatever would rise to meet them, Hawke and her Knife-eared Mutt (and other colloquialisms of that nature).

He almost told her everything, in that moment. He almost unshackled himself from his secrets and let them loose, free to circle the room like impatient birds, twittering overhead. But there was something left unfinished. There was something he had not yet confronted, out of fear.

It was then that he decided he would hide no more. If he was going to have his freedom, he knew suddenly that he would have to take it from his master's grasping hands, half the world away. There was the fear he'd come to expect, but quickly forming beside it was a sense of purpose. There was determination now, and grit.

He would no longer permit this half-life.

"What are you thinking?" Hawke asked him, alerted by his silence.

He considered giving her a false answer, but the impulse died before he could properly form one. "I was thinking about Danarius," he confessed. "I was thinking about finding him."

Hawke's eyes became owlish. "It's time, then?"

"I think so."

"Hm." She considered. "Would you wait until my leg is better until you go hunt for him?"

"I thought you said you're a cripple, now," he said dryly. "I thought you weren't going to walk anymore."

"I changed my mind," she said dismissively. "I was half joking, anyway."

"Were you."

"Don't change the subject! Yes, I'm going to be able to walk. Don't run off until I can help you, Fenris. Promise me."

He knew instinctively that there was more to her demand than she would admit. He knew that she regarded him in much the same way he regarded her; with love and fear of loss, with a degree of longing and an impossible desire. He knew that he would have asked the same thing of her, and so he nodded. "You have my word," he told her.

She let out a long sigh and leaned back into her chair. "I was afraid you'd tell me to stay here."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. You have some odd notions in your head about protecting me," she said, fixing him with one irritated eye. "As if I'm incapable of taking care of myself."

"Ha. So it's about your pride, is it?"

"What pride?" she demanded. "I'm as humble as a church mouse."

"Self-deprecation is not the same thing as humility, Hawke."

"Fine, be a pedant. I don't care."

He felt himself grin. "I could go, if you prefer."

Her hands fluttered in her irritation like small wings. "Don't be a baby. I need you to stay, if only to keep those jackals away from my door."

"Right." He knew she'd been joking, but hearing her say that she needed him filled him with such warmth that he half wondered if it was daylight again.

They lapsed into contented silence and not long after she drifted to sleep, curling against the arm of her chair. He watched her sleep for a long while, the way the dying firelight caught flecks of mahogany in her hair, the way it curled across her cheek, her eyelashes fanned against her skin. He thought of his promise to return to her everything she gave to him, and yet for the first time he felt as if he was finally beginning to fulfill that vow.

The night stretched long, and he plotted. He planned the death of his puppeteer.


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: HUGE piles of thanks to my reviewers; gogogeisha, Nezumi, DreamerKate, Kainen-no-Kitsune, SpikeDawg45, Kathryn Taylor, Taasla, Pseudo-sweetheart, aoisenshi, NoMadKa, R2s Muse, tincat, Jedi Kacee, CreatedInFyre7, Exxie, and Sepsis, and to everyone else who has read, faved and followed this monster of a fic. Cookies to you all!**

**So I'm pretty much the worst and haven't given you guys a new chapter in 2 months, auuugh. Lot's of real life and stress and such, but it's all OVER now (yayyyy) so I have lots of time to write.  
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**For Act III, I think I'm going to be tweaking details a little more than previous sections. Narrative-wise it always felt weakest to me, so I'm going to play around with it and add/take out what I like :P I feel like if this were an advertisement for the section it would say "More Characters! More Drama! More Action! More Sexual Tension! More Romance! More of the same...? NO! STAY TUNED FOR ACT III"  
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**Thanks so much for reading everyone- feel free to share your thoughts in a review, because reviews are lovely. :)  
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Interlude II- An Occasion

Varric used to say that you could learn the measure of a person more from everyday drudgery than periods of danger and heroism. Of course I was skeptical, at first. Wouldn't bravery in the face of certain death tell you more about a man's character than his actions in the uneventful interim? But Varric insisted. He said it was because anyone could step up and play hero when the going was rough, but facing the world with the same stiff-backed bravery and kindness every moment of every day, even when no one was watching; that was what made a hero in his eyes.

It didn't surprise any of us that he identified Hawke as the latter.

Of course she denied any claims to her extraordinary qualities. "I'm just doing what anyone would do," she would insist, frowning a bit. "What the hell else am I supposed to do with all of this crap?"

She was referring to the gifts the nobles left at her doorstep, flimsy praise for all she had sacrificed. She didn't keep them or sell them; she rounded them up and gave them to the poor of Darktown. This continued for years and yet she never broke with her habit. "I have enough, for crying out loud," she would say before gathering the gifts in a cart and sending them to the lower reaches, where they would be distributed fairly.

So she became a Champion of Kirkwall in more than name. The nobles loved her for selfish reasons; she was skilled and more than able to save their lives. The poor loved her because even when no one watched, she still gave to them. She never forgot their struggles, not even living her life of riches and fame.

If there had ever been a doubt, we all learned the true measure of Hawke then.

I took some comfort in this; the core of her character remained unchanged despite all she had suffered. But it was true that the laughing, smirking Hawke of all those years ago had almost completely disappeared. I could probe her into laughter sometimes, when I forget my fears enough to do so. But that year of 9:34 had taken much from her.

She'd lost her mother, her sister. She'd lost her friend, Isabela. She and I had lost each other.

Perhaps because of this, she allowed some of her old prejudices to fade. She spoke more with the blood mage of the Alienage, Merrill and the strange noble-priest of Hightown, Sebastian. She accepted them despite previous inclination. Perhaps in her recovery, she realized she needed those who understood more than she needed her old judgments.

Her leg was slow to heal, and even today she still limps a bit. She uses a cane at home, many years before her time, but the moment she takes a step out her door she rolls her limp into as even a pace as she can manage through the pain. And it does pain her. She is slower in combat than she was before her duel with the Arishok, though she is just as deadly. She compensates as a master would; where once she was all fury and offense – a whirling dervish of incredible power – now she creates a barrier out of her swiftly moving blades. I've never seen a sword or spell pass through her defense.

Those were odd years. Not exactly unwarranted- I had long insisted that Hawke needed a break. But they were odd in that they were largely uneventful at first. The nobles continued their petty schemes, the poor still struggled to survive. Above it all, the Knight-Commander slowly secured more power for herself until she sat at the top of the city as the Viscount once did, though she possessed none of his even-handedness. She squeezed like miser, counting grains of sand.

She caged the mages unchecked now. Not the ranting of the First Enchanter or the call of the Grand Cleric for temperance would have stopped her now. I suppose I should have seen what eventually happened coming from a mile away, considering the conditions. Hawke insists to this day that no one could have predicted how it all ended, and that I should tell her when I fully gain control of the powers of Sight because she has_ endless_ questions. (She may be the Champion and the dearest love of my life, but she is also a smartass).

In the meanwhile, Hawke and I planned. Schemed, perhaps. My former master lurked half a world away, and I was no longer content to continue this half-life; always afraid, always looking over my shoulder for Danarius, looming like a shadow. I loved Hawke and I wanted nothing more than to remain at her side, unafraid. I never wanted to fear the dark places of my mind, always wary of phantom puppet strings.

Our plan changed a thousand times as her leg healed. Should we lure Danarius here? Should we go to meet him? There were benefits and disadvantages to each. I reminded her that she was under no obligation to help – in fact, I think I would have preferred she leave me to handle Danarius alone – but she staunchly insisted.

"I'm not going to leave you," she said. "You don't have to fight your demons alone."

I loved her even more for it.

Those years were like a pause, a waiting inhale. There was relative peace, but always with the vague feeling that only the slightest shift would send the whole thing crashing to the floor, shattering like glass. It's difficult to pinpoint exactly what changed and when, but if I was to hazard a guess, I would say things changed the day Aveline married Donnic.

I should have known. But of course we're all flawless seers with the benefit of hindsight.

* * *

Fenris pulled at his collar. It had been starched to an impossible stiffness – as if the fabric had become solid as stone in the span of the ministrations – but he swallowed his discomfort with as much grace as he could manage. Varric snorted as he fidgeted.

He hated occasions for this exact reason. He was more accustomed to the supple feel of his armor, so perfectly worn that it moved with him, almost like a second skin. He was more accustomed to going without shoes; the better to run and leap and dodge. These clothes were much like chains around his neck, strangling him, caging him. His shoes alone were like solid blocks of granite.

"Come on, broody," Varric chided. "You're making me uncomfortable just looking at you."

"My sincerest apologies," Fenris bit back sarcastically. His prolonged exposure to the finery had made his temper short. "We wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable, would we?"

Varric, dressed in a fine tunic and wool trousers, just snorted. "Fidgeting makes it worse, you know."

"And you would know, would you."

"I would," he said genially. "Do you think you can put your snarl away, just for an afternoon? We are going to a wedding, after all."

"I'm not snarling."

"Really."

Fenris sighed and smoothed his expression. Varric was right – it would be churlish to glower through a wedding service, which was supposed to be a joyful occasion. He would have liked to argue further, but he resisted. "Fine. Is this better?"

"Infinitesimally. Shall we?"

"Mm."

They set out into the warm, autumn sun, threading the familiar path through the streets to the Hightown Chantry. Fenris distantly heard bells tolling, and though his temper was indeed very foul, even he couldn't be completely unaffected by the sound of it. He typically avoided the Chantry, as looking such devout faith in the eyes made him uncomfortable, but there was something very hopeful about it.

"Nice day for a wedding," Varric commented, watching a lantern twist in the idle breeze.

Fenris grunted in assent.

Varric looked at him askance. "Should I assume that this reticence is your usual demeanor, or is something legitimately bothering you?"

He would be the worst sort of liar if he denied that the wedding had inspired in him an odd mood. He pushed away thoughts of Hawke and what they could have been with increasing regularity, but something about the finality of a wedding made his choices and situation seem stupid and foolish, as if he denied them both what they needed out of flimsy principle. Logically, he knew it was more than that.

"Just . . . preoccupied," he admitted. Varric knew him well enough not to pry for details, despite his inclination.

There was little in the way of decoration in the Chantry; a small arrangement of flowers stood at the head of the room where the Grand Cleric waited, a small tome open in her hands. Fenris was briefly surprised at her presence, though he knew he shouldn't be; Aveline alone was one of the most renowned servants of Kirkwall, and it made sense her wedding would be officiated by the Grand Cleric.

There were more people than Fenris thought there would be, which immediately made him uncomfortable, itching for the exit. If he hadn't known more than half of the Guard still attended their duties, he would have suspected they all were here now, for they all huddled toward the front of the Chantry, whispering and laughing and looking so unabashedly joyful Fenris felt oddly as if he was intruding on something personal between them and their Captain.

Aside from the Guard, who seemed to make up most of the attendees, Fenris saw Anders and Merrill in the back of the room, looking uniformly uncomfortable. The blood mage, Fenris seethed. Both Hawke and Aveline had made inroads to the elven mage, but Fenris could not abide by her, completely on principle. One never knew what a blood mage angled for aside from power, and one never knew when they would abandon pretense to strike.

Varric, however, seemed unconcerned by this; he sidled up to the both of them with a charming grin on his face. "Nice to see you out of the trenches, Daisy."

Merrill's expression pulled into concern. "But I haven't been in any trenches," she said, oblivious.

"Never mind. Always a pleasure, Blondie."

"Varric," Anders nodded, jaw tight. Fenris suspected the mage found the present company just as uncomfortable as he did, though they both bit back their annoyances and dislike for the sake of the occasion. Only Merrill and Varric seemed truly unconcerned, lapsing into easy chatter.

It felt like an age before the room was finally urged to silence by the Grand Cleric, who held out her hands with a small smile. The guests snapped to obey at once and Fenris – ever the pragmatic – appreciated the ability to inspire obedience without shouting or threats or violence.

Donnic and his attendant were the first to enter, standing at the Grand Cleric's side. Fenris knew a little of Donnic- a good man, solid and trustworthy. They played Diamondback every now and then and he was a fair gambler, always paying his debts with little grousing or complaint. His expression would have been comical if Fenris did not empathize; he was both anxious and full of anticipation.

Hawke came down the aisle next, slightly limping as she scattered flower petals. She wore a dress of yellow, her dark hair neatly plaited down her back. She was older and more tired – the last three years had taken a toll despite their relative calm – but she was still more beautiful than any person in the world. She caught his gaze and smiled at him, and he couldn't resist his answering grin.

Finally, Aveline marched solemnly down the aisle, a bouquet of flowers in her hands. Fenris almost choked when he saw her and he wasn't alone in his reaction; all the guests seemed similarly agog. She wore a blue dress, modestly cut but still feminine, and a crown of orange blossoms rested on her brow. He'd never seen her without her customary bulky plate armor, not even when at the tavern for drinks. If she was uncomfortable in the dress, Aveline didn't show it; she strode down the aisle with her back straight and her head held high, and when she caught Donnic's astounded gaze, she smiled more brightly than he'd ever seen.

His thoughts drifted as Aveline and Donnic spoke their vows. Perhaps it was rude of him, but something about the ceremony was uncomfortable, as if he was a stranger prying on a personal occasion. He'd been invited, of course, but he wondered if Aveline had the option, would she have invited half the city to gawk on her wedding. Fenris knew his own answer to the question; anything so personal would best be done away from prying eyes. Somewhere safe. Isolated.

He watched Hawke without bothering to hide it. She looked better, he decided. She was smiling – though it was still a bit stiff, and it didn't completely reach her eyes. She was happier now but still too thin – leftover from her fevered state and subsequent melancholy – and he knew that her leg pained her desperately. When the day was done, she would collapse at home, soaking her throbbing leg in a warm bath mixed with various herbs and essences that didn't seem to completely work.

She refused to use her cane outside of her home on principle. "What would it do to this town to see their Cripple Champion hobbling like an old woman?" she had asked him bitterly, using the old insulting title though she knew he hated it.

In the recent years, he'd become obsessed with two tasks. Two labors of duty, he liked to think. He had a responsibility to end Danarius in whatever way he could manage, and he had an obligation to help Hawke heal from her wounds and scars. There were physical wounds he couldn't manage, but he hated the thought of her levity and brightness being forever lost. He would help her find it, if it was the only worthy thing he did in this life.

The sound of cheering and applause broke through his thoughts, and he looked up in time to see Aveline and Donnic push through the doors of the Chantry into the daylight beyond.

"They'll be heading to the Hanged Man, next," Varric supplied.

"What?"

"They rented the whole place, supposedly. Free drinks and a meal. Sound like a good time?"

Whatever arrangement they'd made with the proprietor of the Hanged Man must have been a costly one, for Fenris couldn't imagine the man giving up an entire evening of business for a fair price. "How did they afford that on a Guardsman's salary?" Fenris wondered, falling into step with the dwarf.

Varric examined his nails. "Oh, I might have had something to do with it."

"You helped them cut a deal?"

"You think that bartender would cut a deal on one of the best business days of the week?" Varric asked as if Fenris was stupid. "No, I paid for it."

"That was nice of you."

Varric waved the praise away. "Meh. See you there, elf." And with that, he was gone, herding the wave of wedding-goers toward the tavern and chatting amicably all the while.

Hawke had not left with the bulk of the guests. She stood beside the Grand Cleric, talking in a low voice. Whatever happiness she had felt or feigned was abandoned; she looked as if once again she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. The Grand Cleric squeezed her hand and shook her head, but Hawke had already begun to limp away, her expression stormy. When she saw Fenris, she attempted a smile but it was a flimsy thing.

"Hey," she said. "Waiting for me?"

"If that's all right."

"Of course, Fenris. Let's go."

He pushed open the door and held it for her. Her limp had become more pronounced in the span of the wedding, and her face was drawn in lines of pain. There was a constant crease between her brows. He knew she didn't like to be prodded about her suffering, but he couldn't control his concern.

"Here," he said, offering her his arm. He would provide her the chance to think chivalry moved him, instead of worry. She took it gratefully, leaning into him as they made slow progress through Hightown.

"So you weren't bored out of your mind, right?" she asked him, smirking. "You weren't strangled by your collar?"

"I found a way to occupy myself, yes," he said. "You?"

She shrugged. "I was glad to stand for Aveline. She has a whole city's worth of loyal followers, but not very many friends. And out of those friends, I look best in a dress."

"That you do."

"Well, thank you," she said, smiling genuinely now. "I thought I might perhaps look too skeletal, so it's nice to hear I haven't completely lost my charms."

"You look lovely and you know it."

She flapped her free hand at him, rolling her eyes. "Fine. As you say."

They continued on in silence, though it was an easy kind, comfortable. They'd known and loved one another for seven years now, and there was no frantic impulse to fill the silence with thought and sound. They were assured in one another. Her touch was as thrilling as it had been all those years ago, but Hawke herself was as comfortable as his armor, safe as a shield.

He'd ended what began between them many years ago, and yet it still continued on, in some odd form. They'd both grown tired with denying it. Now, instead, they only refused to speak it aloud.

She stumbled on a loose stone in the street and he caught her quickly, wrapping his other arm around her waist before she could fall. It took him a moment to realize the entire length of her was pressed against him, and another moment to remember what that kind of proximity did to him. It brought quick memories of her unclothed, the feel of her skin, the shape of her mouth on his.

He was too practiced to let her drop to the ground, but he helped her upright and gave her his arm again before continuing on, a safe distance away.

"Thank you," she said in a small voice.

"You don't have to thank me."

"I suppose not," she said. "It's not like you would have let me fall."

"Not if I can help it." The words were suddenly more serious than he'd intended. She looked away.

It was nearly dusk now. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sounds of water breaking against the docks, still audible over the subdued evening chatter. Shopkeeps put away their stalls and hurried off into the increasing darkness and over their heads, the early stars gleamed like diamonds set in granite.

He noticed her pace slowed and he craned to look at her. "What's wrong?"

"I have an odd feeling," she said slowly.

"What is it?"

"I don't know," she said, shifting uncomfortably. "My leg hurts. That's probably it."

She was prone to discounting her intuition these days, which he always believed to be a mistake. "Do you want to go home?"

"Yeah. I won't, though. I'm supposed to bless the happy couple."

He bit down on the urge to ask if she wanted her cane. He wasn't her nursemaid, and she hated it when he fretted over her. He would offer his arm as she needed, and ignore the way her proximity made his chest ache.

Outside of the Hanged Man, a group of Guards clustered around the door with uniformly upset expressions. At the center stood Aveline and Donnic. He could hear Aveline's ranting through the clamor, which was no small feat.

"-can't believe it, today of all days-" she was saying, lips pressed together against a tirade.

"Aveline! Why are you out here?"

"Go on inside and you'll see," Aveline said furiously, then reconsidered. "I think I'll come with you."

Though she was alarmed at her friend's reaction, she nodded and pushed through the open doorway of the Hanged Man, her gaze roving the festively decorated floor for the disturbance.

She and Fenris saw it in the same moment; he dimly heard her suck in a gasp through clenched teeth. At the bar, as if no time had passed, sat Isabela. She looked nearly the same as she had three years ago; buxom, curvaceous, her tunic and leather boots customarily scuffed. The only thing out of place was her expression, which was expectant and grim. She looked as if she waited for her execution, as if there was a clearly marked blade above her neck.

"Hello, Hawke," she said. Her voice was hoarse.

"What are you doing here?" Hawke asked coldly. "Bit of the carcass you haven't picked clean?"

"I suppose I deserve that," Isabela said, standing. "I've heard a few things, thought I'd let you know. Considering I owe you."

"I'd say you more than owe me," Hawke said. Fenris had never seen her so incensed. "You realize there's a wedding going on tonight? Say your bit, but leave this well alone."

"I didn't know," Isabela said. "I wondered why this place was empty."

"That's typical, isn't it? Come on; let's _talk." _Hawke turned to Aveline and Donnic, and the rest of the wedding party craned closer, hoping to grab any bit of gossip. "I'll be back in a moment. Don't wait around on my account."

"Like hell, Hawke. Who knows what she'll try," Aveline said, glowering over at Isabela.

"Please, just leave it. I won't be long."

She gestured for Isabela to follow her before limping into the darkened street, where only faint light was visible on the edge of the horizon. With a grimace, she forcibly pushed the door to the Hanged Man closed, so it was only the three of them facing each other in the relatively abandoned street.

"Nice to see the two of you together," Isabela commented.

"Don't," Hawke snapped. "Say what you want and then leave."

He was surprised to see genuine hurt on the pirate's face. "I didn't have to come back here, Hawke," Isabela said in a low, somber voice. "I could have just let it come at you without warning. I thought I owed you better than that, and I wanted to make amends."

"Amends?" Hawke looked as if she couldn't truly believe the words coming out of her mouth. "How do you plan to do that, without knowing exactly what you cost me?"

"I'd heard you lost your leg to the Arishok," said Isabela. "You still have it, as far as I can see."

"What little difference there is in that, but yes. I can't walk anywhere without constant, excruciating pain. I can't fight like I once could. The way I see it, if you'd given the Arishok the relic, none of this would have happened. Many would have lived. I would be whole. I –" she broke off, her expression so hopelessly bitter that Fenris couldn't believe she was able to keep it locked away. "I wouldn't be Champion of this terrible place.

"So, yes. You've cost me more than I'm sure you considered."

"I didn't know," Isabela said. Though furious with the pirate himself, he almost respected that she didn't argue with the charges slung against her; she accepted them as her crimes.

"I'm sure you do now," Hawke said coldly. "So what is this that you so desperately need to tell me?"

"It's for both of you, actually," Isabela replied. "I thought you should know your former master is coming for you."

"Danarius?" Fenris wondered aloud, uncomprehending. It made no sense for the magister to abandon his advantageous position in favor of an unknown. Danarius was cagey, perhaps one of the cleverest magisters in the Imperium. "Why?"

"He's made an alliance with a cadre of blood mages in the city," Isabela said. "He grants them resources and they grant him a foothold here."

"He can't be coming all this way for Fenris alone," Hawke interrupted. "I mean, Fenris is powerful and skilled, and I'm sure the markings were a particular investment, but it's a long way to come and a large risk to take for one slave."

"Well, as I hear it, he's interested in annexing Kirkwall as well," Isabela said. "The Imperium once controlled most of the Thedas and they would like to again. They're coming for Kirkwall as a test, if you will. A trial run. They know things in the city are precarious at best, and they know about the increasing rift between the mages and the rest of the citizens. They don't have the support of the Circle yet, but the way things are here, it's only a matter of time."

Hawke looked too stricken to be properly angry at Isabela for a moment. "Maker," she breathed, looking at Fenris with wide eyes. "I . . . well, shit."

He found he could commiserate with that statement.

Hawke rounded on Isabela, torn between anger and wariness. "Thank you for telling us this," she said slowly. "I . . . realize it must have gone against your instincts."

"What the hell, Hawke?" Isabela said, finally jolted out of her acceptance and patience. "I came here from a long way, evading slavers and pirates and who knows what else to bring you this information because I'm sorry for what I did, and I didn't want to just . . . let it come at you. I . . . Maker. I missed you all."

"So you need protection," Hawke said shrewdly. "Is that it?"

"I can handle myself, and you know that," Isabela snapped. "For once, I am telling the truth. There is a horde of Tevinters coming for you and for Kirkwall, and I thought you should know. I . . . what do I need to do for your forgiveness?"

Hawke said nothing for a moment; her eyes were cold as steel, glinting with the harsh light of the moon. She did not even shift from leg to leg, as she often did when standing too still for a long time, as the constant weight on one was uncomfortable. She stared as Isabela as if she could rifle out all her secrets with little more than a glance.

"How about a duel?" she finally said, deceptively casual.

"What?"

"I thought you liked duels," Hawke said, bending to retrieve the daggers she had strapped to her legs. "Unless you're afraid you'll be defeated by a cripple?"

Isabela pressed her lips in a firm line, drawing her own blades. "Fine. Blunting only, no blood drawn. If I win, I win your forgiveness."

"You'll win an attempt at it, at least." Despite it all, Hawke smirked, and Fenris suspected she was just toying with the pirate now. "If I win, I get to gloat."

Isabela snorted. "We'll see."

They circled one another slowly, weapons at the ready. Isabela was an accomplished fighter, but Hawke was perhaps one of the most skilled rogues he'd ever seen in his life, even after her injury. It was anyone's fight, as far as he could guess.

Isabela lunged with her right blade but Hawke was faster. She deflected the blow with only a step to the side and a flick of her wrist, her smirk widening. This was only a game, he realized. She might not have forgiven Isabela just yet, but she was no longer furious. Her offense was mocking, her defense teasing. She clucked her tongue when Isabela made a misstep and bared her teeth when she twisted one of the pirate's daggers out of her hand.

Though Isabela seemed desperate to win, she was a long way from doing so. Her offense became sloppy and miscalculated; she tripped and stumbled as if half-drunk. She bent to retrieve her fallen blade without bothering to defend her side; either she was losing her edge or she was secretly wanted Hawke to win.

Hawke seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for her eyes narrowed as they battled. "I hope you're not letting me win, Isabela," she said sharply, jabbing the blunt end of her dagger into Isabela's side.

"I'm not!" Isabela squealed in pain. "Do you practice in your sleep? Maker!"

She didn't practice in her sleep, but Fenris knew she trained whenever she was able, constantly seeking new ways to compensate for her disability. She was clever and determined, and therefore usually able to find a myriad of methods. On good days she would test them against Fenris, to general success.

Without much fanfare of fancy tactics, the duel was over. Hawke slapped Isabela's blades out of her hands and knocked her to the ground with one swift strike, pinning her with the heel of her boot. "Do you concede?" Hawke asked her.

Isabela sighed. "Yeah, I concede. Let me up, dammit."

Hawke complied, taking a limping step back as Isabela picked herself off the ground and wiped the dust off her jerkin. "You fight dirty, Hawke."

"I find you have to take any advantage you can with a crippled leg," Hawke replied smoothly.

"Yes, well- I'll be going, I guess. Good luck with whatever it is you do."

Fenris and Hawke shared a quick glance. He wasn't exactly a trusting man and once betrayed he would guard against it for life, but something about Isabela's appeal seemed painfully earnest; her dangerous trek to Kirkwall and her willingness to submit to a duel and subsequent humiliation had not been required, and yet she'd done it anyway. Hawke seemed to agree, though grudgingly, for she sighed. "Wait, Isabela. Hold on."

"What is it? You've defeated me fairly, and now I'd like to go off and nurse my pride in a seedy tavern where no one knows who I am."

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. "Don't be dramatic, for crying out loud. Come back."

Isabela obeyed, staring at Hawke sullenly.

"Maker. I'm not going to say I forgive you yet, because I don't. But I'd like it if you stayed." She shrugged. "Maybe you can work on honesty, and I'll work on forgiveness."

"You mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it," Hawke said impatiently. "Don't just sit there mooning; come here and shake my hand before I change my mind."

Isabela didn't respond immediately. She let the words sink in and a tentative smile pulled at her lips, familiar and foreign all at once. She pushed past Hawke's hand and threw her arms around her instead, pulling her close. It was definitely inappropriate and unwarranted; completely Isabela.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," she said. "I was an asshole."

Hawke patted her back tentatively, though her expression was slowly becoming tender. "Yeah, you were."

And though there was the reality of Danarius looming, making his slow way to Kirkwall for his terrible purposes, the growing unease between Templar and mage, and Hawke's sorrow and pain, right now there was forgiveness and reconciliation between two hurting women and a wedding party among friends, and he found it was enough.


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: Many special thanks to Amina Noir, Dieke Netherland, Sintar, Loki-an, csorciere, merlincrazy, stephivass, CreatedInFyre7, Anon1, EveyDawn, Dira11, MermaidFal11, R2s Muse, Kainen-no-Kitsune, NoMadKa, tincat, BrisingrMithrim, EkoCentric, Sepsis, happylilcpck, and Bettycake for your lovely, wonderful reviews, and to everyone else who has read, faved and followed this story. Your continued support is appreciated more than I know how to say.**

**The last few months have been incredibly hectic - in both good and bad ways - but I'm so happy to be updating this story again. I've learned my lesson about making promises, but I don't think there will be such a huge break in between updates this time guys.  
**

**I wanted to kick off Act 3 with a nice romantic moment, because I've really missed writing those with these guys, but count on some action coming up soon.  
**

**Hearing what you guys think never fails to brighten my day, so even if you don't have much to say feel free to leave me a review, because I treasure them. Thank you so much for reading, everyone. I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
**

"Hey, elf."

Fenris glanced up from his ale toward the sound of the disturbance. It was Varric, of course; his brow furrowed in uncharacteristic concern. "What is it?" Fenris asked.

"You better come with me," Varric replied, gesturing for Fenris to follow.

Worry nearly choked the breath out of him. "What is it?" he said again, leaping to his feet and following Varric out into the cool morning.

Varric said nothing for a moment, and in the distance Fenris could hear the sound of many dissenting voices, rising like the crest of a storm-tossed wave. "Trouble."

He refused to elaborate, and so Fenris was forced to follow the obstinate, inconsiderate dwarf through the Lowtown streets, alternately filled with concern so potent it made it hard to breathe and temper so acute, it was a struggle not to send the dwarf sailing over the heads of the milling passers-by.

Fenris settled into his worn habit of self-castigation as he went. Varric wouldn't bother him unless the trouble had to do with Hawke, and her misery was likely another one of his myriad failures. Her leg refused to heal, and she wouldn't have been injured if he'd insisted on acting as her champion. She wouldn't have been made Champion herself if such a thing had happened, and much of her unhappiness on that subject would have been eradicated.

If he'd never given into his weakness and succumbed to his desires, maybe she would have moved on by now. Maybe she would have found the happiness she deserves with another man; one who was happy and whole, one who hadn't been broken by life.

It was just as he feared. As soon as he and Varric broke through the milling crowd, he saw what had worried Varric so badly. Hawke stood between a red-faced Knight Commander and a furiously gesturing First Enchanter, her hands held out as if she struggled to hold back a flood. In a manner of speaking, that hyperbole was fairly apt.

"The Knight Commander has gone too far!" Orsino shouted to the restless crowd. There was a small cry of assent. "It's not enough that the Templars come into our homes and take our children when they're barely old enough to live without their mothers. But now the Knight Commander practically enslaves us for the sake of her fear! She forces us into Tranquility when no laws have been breached, and the only benefit of doing so would be to assure her comfort and security as this city's ruler!"

"You have gone too far, Orsino!" Meredith shrieked. "I allow you more freedom that my instinct suggests, and you repay me with slander and mob-wrangling! I will not allow this to continue!"

"For the love of the Maker," Hawke said, stumbling a bit as she shifted her weight off her bad leg. "Lower your voices and let's discuss this as adults."

"How dare you?" Meredith cried, advancing on Hawke, her hand twitching toward the sword in her scabbard. "You dare pass judgment on us when you're not even of this city!"

"She is more of this city than many, Knight Commander," Orsino argued. "She defended us against the Qunari while your Templars cowered in their keep, content to let the Guard fight and die in their stead. She defeated the Arishok and protected us all, at great personal and physical cost. You insult this entire city when you disparage her!"

Fenris wasn't in the habit of agreeing with mages on principle, but he found agreed with Orsino. "How long have they been at it?" Fenris asked Varric in a quiet aside.

"Nearly all morning," Varric answered. "I think things are going to get hairy in a minute, and I knew you'd want to be around for that."

"You'd be right." It wasn't the prospect of a fight, really; Fenris could find one of those whenever he wanted, as Danarius sent slavers after him at fairly regular intervals. But if there was trouble around Hawke, he would insist on placing himself squarely between. He had failed her in many ways, but he could still be her shield. He could do that much for her, and in doing so, perhaps begin to repay him all the she had given so willingly.

"Both of you, stop this now! This is not the time or place for this discussion," Hawke said, but her plea was ultimately futile; the crowd surged in its dislike for either Templar or mage, and the din was nearly impenetrable.

"You're wrong, Serah Hawke!" Orsino cried. "I will not be docile and silent while my fellows suffer and die at the hands of the Templars. If we do not discuss this now, even more innocents will be slaughtered, and you will be complicit in your silence!"

"This is what you get when you throw your support behind the mages," Meredith shouted. "They will turn on you as soon as you show them you will not help their imagined plight."

"For the love of - you're BOTH wrong!" Hawke shouted, and for a moment the frothing crowd quieted. "Meredith, you've practically seized the position of Viscount for your own purposes, and those purposes are ruffling a few feathers. You're taking away the freedoms of your fellow brothers and sisters in the sight of the Maker, and punishing them when they flinch!

"And you-" she said, rounding on Orsino. "I don't know what you thought you'd accomplish by coming here and inciting a riot, but I'll tell you that you're making things worse for yourself and your fellow mages. You're surrounded by people who already mistrust and fear you for your abilities, and you thought you'd try and change their minds by screaming your revolutionary rhetoric in their faces? Be reasonable!"

"You're not going to be able to stay above this forever, Hawke," Orison challenged. "You're the Champion of this city, and one of these days you will have to decide with whom you stand."

"Perhaps I will," Hawke said quietly. "Until that day comes, I urge the both of you to be more considerate of the people who look up to you as leaders. Otherwise, conflict truly will become inevitable."

"As if it is not already!" someone in the crowd shouted. "With the mages out for our blood!"

"And you think that justifies treating them like slaves!" another cried, and in that moment the spell was broken. The crowd recoiled as one before shattering into a thousand pieces, shouting and shoving, screaming for blood. Fenris saw it happen as if time had shuddered nearly to a stop: one moment Hawke was standing with her arms outstretched, still trying desperately to stop the riot, and the next she'd been knocked to the ground by the surging mob.

The world became hazy, and the next thing Fenris was aware of he'd knocked aside nearly half of the mob and pushed to Hawke's side, his hand on her arm. He realized belatedly that the lyrium in his skin was alight, singing his bones, his blood; it lit him inside out like a paper lantern. There was a gash on her cheek, trickling blood down the beloved topography of her face, and in that moment he was so angry that it took considerable effort not to vent his rage on the furious mob.

Instead of retaliating on her behalf, he helped her to her feet and spirited her away; at one point, he noted that her feet were not even touching the ground. Only after they'd reached the relatively safety of Hawke's home did he let her go.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, forcing his hands down to his sides, otherwise he would brush aside a loose tendril of her hair.

She shrugged him off. "I'm fine," she said distantly, probing at the side of her face. "Shit. They really got me, didn't they?"

"They did," he echoed.

The shouts of the mob broke through their strange focus, and Hawke flinched. "Here - come inside. Don't want to be around when they reach this quarter."

Fenris hovered indecisively for just a moment before acquiescing, following her into her home and trying to ignore the growing sense of fear and foreboding that made its home in his gut, curdling there like rotting meat.

"Bar the doors," Hawke said to Bodhan before he could explain at the sight of her face. "There's a pretty bad riot out there."

"R- right away, Messere."

Fenris noted that her limp had become quite pronounced, and by the time she reached the study, she fell stiffly into a chair and cried out, clutching her leg. He rushed to her side. "Is it -?"

"It's the usual," she muttered through clenched teeth. "Dammit."

She struggled to get up, but he held out a hand to hold her in place. "Let me."

"You don't even know what I was going to get," she accused.

"Something to clean and bind your face, for one," he said. "And the salve for your leg."

She scowled up at him. "Don't think you're some fancy kind of mind reader or anything."

"I'm not. I am, however, not stupid and fully able to see what you need. Now, if you please?"

She waved him off, muttering under her breath, and though he couldn't catch all of what she said, he caught the word 'smug' in the unintelligible strain. He was many things - indeed, and most of those things were bad - but smugness was definitely not among his qualities or defects.

Fenris often felt that he knew this place better than his own makeshift home. These days it was mostly quiet, save for the vague tinkering of Sandal. Orana had been a member of Hawke's household for years, and yet she still kept her work quiet and unobtrusive; a habit borne of her life as a slave. But Fenris knew the true reason for the silence.

It was the silence of absence, of loss. This was a home as much as it was a sieve, and every year she spent here exacted one more thing from Hawke, like a blood price in the old stories of demons. There was the absence of her brother, her sister, her mother - the rooms that would have been theirs kept empty, even after all these years. There was the loss of her youth, the loss of her ease in combat, plain in every limping step she took, the stairs that had become a challenge. Now every day she ventured beyond her home was an excruciating trial, and by the time it was over, she was often in so much pain that she couldn't move for days.

Even her bedroom had become an old battleground. He avoided it as he gathered some bindings, water, and her salve. He kept from looking at it, the better to avoid those old memories, which delighted in resurfacing whenever he gave them half the chance (and sometimes when he didn't give them a chance at all).

Before their pledge to defeat Danarius, Fenris had avoided thoughts of her because he knew he would never be free, and that at the back of his mind there would always be that fear of compulsion, his master's voice moving his limbs as if by puppet strings, positioning his hands around her throat, or his fist through her chest. He would not risk that, not even if it meant he would suffer without her for the rest of his life.

Now, he merely told those rattling memories to wait. To be patient. Danarius was the final ghost he must excise, and once he did, he would be free to love her as she deserved. He would be free to repay her everything that she deserved, multiplied a thousand-fold. He would be happy to do it.

There was a good part of him that wished Hawke would have found someone else by now, and try as he might he could not convince this decent part of himself to shut up. Because it would be better for her. To have someone free and uncomplicated, who didn't have to guard against the voice of his master for fear of what he might command.

Indeed - if Anders had been worthy of Hawke, he might not have objected at all. As it was, however, the mage was hardly a better option, selfish and grasping as he was.

Fenris gathered the necessary supplies before striding back to the study, but not before he chanced one final glance at her bedroom. It was tempting disaster, he knew. It was foolish and childish and a thousand other unfortunate things, but above them, it was wonderful to remember what it had been like to kiss her, to slide his hands over the length of her body and revel in the softness of her skin. It had been perfect beyond his imagining to feel her breath on his neck, her voice husky and low as he -

Hawke glanced up at him when he entered the study, a bowl of water wedged against his hip. "I don't like it when you act like a nursemaid," she grumbled.

"I don't like it when you insist on suffering in silence," he shot back.

"Why should it matter?" she retorted bitterly.

"You know why." He gently removed her boot. "Besides, we're all adrift without the leader of our 'merry band of misfits'. Wasn't that what you called us?"

She smiled, though it was a rueful thing. "Once."

"And not now?"

"I don't think you're quite so merry," she returned, then fell silent. "I'm not so merry, either," she said finally.

"It's not right when I appear to be the cheerful one compared to you. Do you realize you are upsetting the natural order of the world now?" he asked, trying desperately to inject some levity into the conversation.

But his attempt failed. "Who can know what the natural order of the world should be?" she mused quietly. "Maybe it's natural for mages and Templars to tear each other apart, without giving a thought toward those who are caught in the middle, without thinking of those they hurt in their war over principles."

He said nothing. If left unchecked, she would stress over the state of Kirkwall for the entire night, when he knew she would be better suited resting. He nudged the bowl of water toward her. "Will you let me, or have you decided to take another principled stand?"

She fixed him with a stern glare. "Don't be glib."

"I'm not. Just asking a legitimate question." He struggled with himself for half a moment before deciding to throw caution to the wind. "I - I can't do everything for you that you deserve, or repay everything that you've given, but . . . I can help you with this. Here, today."

Her hard gaze softened, and he thought he recognized a small hint of what had once been between them in her eyes. "What is this obsession of yours?"

"What?"

"This strange need to repay me. What services of mine had you acquired without repayment, exactly?"

Was this a joke? He searched her face for a hint of humor, but found none. "I - you've been . . . patient. Even though I've been difficult. I just thought -"

"Oh, Fenris," she sighed. "At this point, I think we're square."

"Not even close."

"Aren't we? You were the only one who never left my side after the Arishok nearly killed me. You kept all those slobbering nobles at bay, not to mention the more sinister guests, without once ever asking for anything in return."

Once again, she was taking things so far out of context that the context had almost ceased to exist, all to serve her point. "That's not -"

"You came with me to the Deep Roads and refused your cut of the findings when we returned. You cared for my mother when I went to find Bethany. You've put up with my whims and fancies and - and troubles for seven years, without ever asking for repayment. And yet you still labor under this mistaken impression that it's you who owes a debt to me, when in fact the opposite is true!"

"You're - I -" He fell silent, attempting to gain control of the debate. When she laid it out as she had, suddenly his insistence felt stupid. And yet he knew that she was wrong, and in the end those things did not even begin to equal to her patience when she looked at him, and the fact that inexplicably, even after he'd hurt her so badly that it had wounded her deeply, she refused to give up on him.

He sighed, defeated. "Whatever you say," he said, gently mopping the blood off her cheek.

"You know I hate it when you do that," she said, narrowing her eyes. "When you say that I win, but you keep holding on to your delusions anyway."

"Delusions!" he smirked. "Truly, you are kind beyond earthly ability. Your tact and compassion have ceased to be human and now more closely resemble that of a god. Congratulations."

She grinned for what seemed like the first time in years. "No one likes a smartass, you know."

"You do. Or you did, when you were one."

"So confident of that! Perhaps I've changed too much for the same to be true now."

"I would know if it wasn't," he said, biting his lips against his widening smile. "You're not that good at hiding things."

She broke out into laughter, and he desperately wished that he could capture the sound of it, so as to remind her when she forgot again. "You're terrible."

"Indeed."

With a little sigh, she leaned back and allowed him to rub the salve in the jagged scar that ran the length of her leg, the remaining imprint of the Arishok's axe. He knew that Orana couldn't bear to treat the wound, for it made her desperately sad, and Bodhan claimed to have an uneasy stomach, and the sight of Hawke's ruined scar made him liable to lose his lunch. But Fenris knelt before her gladly and slid his hands along the ridge of it, watchful for the slightest change in her expression, the slightest indication that what should please her had begun to cause pain instead.

It seemed odd that he once feared touching her, almost as much as he feared her touch in return. Now, it was all he could do to keep from touching her constantly, for his hands had gained a taste for the texture of her skin, and they were insatiable.

"This is the only time where I'm not in pain," she said softly, her eyes still closed, head lolling back so her hair made a dark veil down her back.

"What?"

"You do that so well," she murmured. "Like you've done it before. And when you're here, I'm not in pain." A ghost of a smile pulled at her lips. "If I didn't already want you around all the time, I'd be tempted to keep you here for that alone."

He grimaced ruefully. "Danarius had me do this for him," he said, voice twisting. "Almost every day."

Hawke's eyes shot open, and it made his heart ache to see the genuine sadness and reproach she felt on his behalf. "I - I'm sorry, Fenris. Maybe you shouldn't -"

"The difference here, Hawke, is that I want to," he said firmly, sliding his hand up the crooked length of her leg. "And it makes all the difference in the world."

The sadness faded and a smile took its place, and he found that he would say any manner of foolish and self-effacing things if only for the small chance of seeing that smile reemerge. "I told you once that you're good, remember?"

He did. The memories of that eager time were often all he had when things were darkest and he feared that he would never defeat Danarius, that he'd never earn the chance to be at her side again. "Of course," he said.

"It was such an understatement," she breathed.

He met her gaze without consciously deciding to, and in that moment he was lost. He should be afraid at what could happen when such barriers were breached, but instead he could only look at her and try and remember what it was like to breathe.

They were treading on dangerous ground now. He'd drawn these ridiculous lines for their continued relationship with two goals in mind - to protect her from himself, and to keep from cutting her out of his life altogether, which would have caused more pain that he wanted to suffer. But at times like these, when she looked at him with such love, when her eyes seemed to penetrate beyond the barrier of his skin to every slinking thought beneath, did he consider that it might be for the best. He knew he was weak, and he would not be able to meet her gaze and resist it forever.

He coughed and looked away. "You do me too much credit." _Far, far too much._

"You always say that," she said quietly.

"It's the truth."

"I don't know," she murmured. "How much of truth is true because we want it to be so, and how much is truth because it exists outside of our desires?"

It was just as he feared. She was able to crack him open and look inside, rifling out his thoughts and worries and flaws with absurd ease. "Not tonight, Hawke."

"What!"

"I don't want to stay up all night, philosophizing needlessly," he said, putting away the salve and taking a seat beside her.

"It's not needless!" she retorted.

"You always say that."

She grunted, but said nothing.

They sat beside each other for the rest of the evening. The riot petered out after a few hours with the arrival of what sounded like Aveline and the guard. Fenris imagined she'd have some terse words for Hawke tomorrow, for failing to stop the riot and do anything after it had broken, and Fenris would have some terse words for her right back.

After a few hours, Hawke drifted off to sleep, her head lolling to the side, a tendril of her hair hanging in her eyes. And though Fenris knew it was foolish and wrong and a thousand other bad things, he reached across the breach and gently tucked that errant strand of hair behind her ear. She moaned and curled into the curve of his hand, and he wished that things could always be exactly like this.


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: HUGE thanks to my reviewers this time around: NoMadKa, GlysMari, marie-ise, Anon1, Pint-sized She-Bear, Anon2, Loki-an, MermaidFal11, Sintar, lorkay, Brynde, Amina Noir, csorciere, Shinshia101, DKAllayna, EkoCentric, Darth Melly, and DegreeBound205, and to everyone else who has read, faved and followed this story. You guys are wonderful (and patient!) **

**Feels good to be writing this story again. Fenris and Marian make me so sad sometimes, so I just have to say that I plan on diverging a bit from canon in this 3rd act. You guys can probably already tell where I'm going with this, but I have a few surprises up my sleeve too, and I hope it makes for a more satisfying, fulfilling conclusion. (Not for quite a few chapters yet, though! :D)  
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**As always, I absolutely adore hearing back from you all, so please leave me a review or send me a PM if you are so inclined. Thank you for reading, everyone, and I hope you enjoy!  
**

Fenris knew that for all intents and purposes, his principled stand against succumbing to Hawke was nearly all for nothing. Most nights he spent at her estate, watching over her as she slept fitfully, curled up in the armchair in front of the fire - her leg often pained her too much for her to climb the stairs to her room. He helped her prepare her meals, plan her missions, answer her mail. He made her laugh when it seems as if she would never laugh again.

There was a sarcastic, bitter part of him that noted his duties now were nearly identical to his duties as Danarius' slave and bodyguard. But he was quick to correct this thought; he was here beside Hawke because he wanted to be. He couldn't allow himself to love her, for it was too dangerous. But he could allow himself to serve her. That was familiar, that was safe. He would take it, for the alternative was too painful to bear.

But there were idle times while she slept when he would remember that one night, the memory of it as sharp as if it had only just happened, and the ruthless span of years did not step between the touch of her hand on his besieged skin and the absence of it. He would look at her and almost be able to recall the taste of her lips, the exact quality of her eyes and the way they shone like stars, the sound of her breathless laughter more precious than gold.

He stood guard over the broken woman he loved, because many years ago in a fit of feverish haze she had asked him to stay and he had promised that he would. He was bound by his word to her, because it was all he could give. And while it would have been better to stay away, to flee to his mansion and protect her from everything that he was, he could not.

He knew for certain that if she were to come to him with that look in her eyes - the look of want so large that it grew beyond the confines of physical presence - he would be unable to deny her. He wouldn't even want to. He'd look into her eyes and answer her want with desire of his own.

It was enough to drive a broken down, bitter elf to prayer. Would the Maker look at him and feel pity, perhaps? Would He laugh instead? Fenris felt that perhaps He would; if not for its danger, the situation would strike a god as ridiculous. If not for the menace coiled in his body, the lyrium ghost that hungered for blood, the puppet strings that he feared even now, it would be enough to shrug off with mild hilarity; the nonsense of mortals and their chains, too often of their own devising.

Hawke did not sleep long. After four hours, she lurched upright in her seat, her eyes wide and unseeing. Her hands were rigid claws. "Fenris!" she screamed, flailing. "Fenris!"

He was at her side in an instant, and though it was nearly physical pain to touch her, he captured her wrists in his hands, gently as if she were made of glass. "Here, now," he said quietly. "It was only a dream."

Slowly, her eyes focused on him as the traces of the nightmare faded, and he was horrified to see that they filled with tears. "Fenris . . . " she whispered, and he feared that his own heart would break at the sound of her broken voice.

"It was only a dream," he repeated, feeling useless.

"Right," she echoed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "It's just . . . Maker. It was so real. I could nearly touch the dream, and it felt as real as your hands."

He relinquished his grasp on her wrists, suddenly self-conscious. "What happened? If you don't mind my asking, that is. I mean . . ."

For a moment, he wondered if she did mind. She had called out his name in the throes of that nightmare, so he knew that it had featured him in some way. But he wondered: had she called out in fear for him . . . or fear of him?

"It was Danarius," she said finally. "I dreamed he took you away."

"You know that will never happen," he told her, but she shook her head.

"I dreamed that you went with him willingly." She let out a shuddering breath. "I can see it so clearly; your head bowed, his hands on you. I've never met him, I don't know what he looks like, but I fear him just as much as I hate him."

At that moment, Fenris thought of an alternate life of Hawke's - one where he'd never met her. It would be free of the things that plagued her in the past, free of his own ghosts. She'd never know pain at his hands, or fear on his behalf, and in his estimation, this life was preferable to the one she had now; broken, tormented. If he was stronger, he would have left that moment.

Instead, he sat beside her. "I would never go with him willingly."

"I know. Sometimes, though . . ." She shook her head once again. "Never mind."

"Tell me," he insisted. "Please."

She fixed him with a gaze that seemed to penetrate beyond the tricks of the surface, to glean the truth beneath. "Sometimes I fear that it won't matter what you want. That the moment he speaks, you will obey."

For a wild second, he wondered if she knew everything; if he'd confessed the truth in his sleep, perhaps, or tattooed it on his forehead. He wondered if she knew him so intimately that she would always be able to divine his fears, no matter how desperately he sought to hide them. "That won't happen," he said again, more weakly this time.

"I hope it doesn't," she said, coughing. "See how it torments me?" She made her voice light, but the attempt fell flat. Her face was covered in a fine sheen, as if she was in the throes of fever, and her eyes were shadowed by circles, so that when he looked at her out of the corner of his eye she seemed to him to be like a hollowed out skull, illuminated by loss.

She did not give him the chance to reply. Before he could get to his feet and help her up, she lurched upright, favoring her good leg. "I feel like getting drunk," she said, attempting an airy tone. "Care to join me?"

"You know me," he said, at her side. "I'll never say no to a good vintage."

"Pity you couldn't taste it either way. How would you know it's good or not?"

"I can still smell, you know."

"Right, right."

They set out for the Hanged Man without any delay. It was still quite dark, and Fenris guessed by virtue of the color of the sky that the sun would not rise for a few hours yet. He mentally tabulated the hours that Hawke had slept, and frowned when he formulated the answer. It seemed that these days, she only slept in fits and spurts, preferring to spend her idle time in drunkenness.

He wasn't surprised to learn that Hawke had the same idea. "When's the last time you slept?" she asked, and though she attempted to phrase it as a casual aside, he heard the reproach in her voice.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a straight night of sleep. "Last night."

"You filthy liar."

He sighed. "I don't know, Hawke. I don't sleep; you know that."

She met his gaze for a moment, and he tried to ignore the way that that gaze seared, the way it gave him the sensation of falling. "Maybe you're rubbing off on me."

"Maker forbid."

"Oh, come on. I can think of quite a few people who are worse role models."

"Yes; surely there are some other murderers out there that you can emulate. Only difference with them is they can sleep through the night."

She didn't reply immediately. "Where's this coming from?"

"Nowhere."

"Fenris . . ."

"Forget I said anything."

She fell silent once again, and Fenris was left alone with the lump of guilt he battled with, an entity that grew more impossible to suppress as the days turned into weeks and years. If he wasn't careful with that one memory, it would rise from his gut to his throat, fighting desperately to free itself from its prison. And he would be damned before he confessed that sin to Hawke.

She deserved to know the truth, surely. Many times over. She deserved to know everything that he did, so that she was able to finally make a decision regarding his position in her life. But he knew the outcome of that deliberation, even without knowing the future. She would recoil and send him away, and it would be no more than he deserved. He would even obey her, though it would kill him to do it.

Or worse, perhaps, she wouldn't care. She would forgive him as he'd never been able to forgive himself. She would stand at his side when he faced Danarius, and ultimately suffer the same fate.

Briefly, he entertained notions of running away; finally, after all these years, packing up his armor and his sword and seeking out Danarius alone. That was the best course of action, surely. In this scenario, there would be no chance Hawke would be hurt. She would be safe, half the world away. She would hate him for leaving her, but she would be safe.

But one covert glance in her direction defeated this plan before it could take root. She limped through the Lowtown alleys, trying gamely to swallow each tender grimace of pain. One hand trailed over the filthy stone of the buildings, and he noted that her nails were bitten down nearly to the quick, crusted with dried blood. When he searched her face too long, he could see the suffering of the last seven years etched there in the crease between her brows, the circles under her eyes. He could see her misery as if it was physically manifested, a creature sitting on her back, and with that knowledge, could not leave her any more than he could cut off his own hands.

"Seems like the rioters didn't do that much damage," she commented absently.

"They seemed keener on hurting each other than damaging property," Fenris said.

"Hm. Odd that the nobles should be so caught up in the issue. Orsino had worked them up nearly to a lather."

"It's just like you said: if he's at all interested in making a case of pity for himself and the rest of the mages, screaming his rhetoric in the faces of a crowd was probably not the best decision."

"You got it." She picked at her ravaged nails. "This whole situation gives me an odd feeling."

"What do you mean?"

"Like . . . it's almost like they're actors in a play, carrying out the motions of some mad plot, and they have something bigger that they want, that they're working for."

"I think you're right."

"I wonder if it's related to what Isabela said," Hawke said finally, craning closer to look at him. "If it's the Tevinters, playing with their puppet strings, working everything and everyone up, so when the time comes they can sweep in and make short work of the city."

Something twisted in Fenris' gut. "I would not be surprised in the least if that was so."

"I suppose that just leaves what we do about it," Hawke said quietly.

She slowly came to a stop, her hand hovering over the Hanged Man's door, and at that moment she looked so lost that Fenris had to actively control the urge to take that hand and press it between his own. Touch was dangerous, proximity was dangerous; there were a thousand similar rules, but the need for them faded when faced with Hawke's unhappiness.

He was struck by sudden, foolish inspiration. "Run away," he told her.

She recoiled from the door, her wide eyes catching the strange light of the moon. "What?"

"Run away." He could not curb his intensity, and he took a step closer so that they were only separated by mere shivering inches; so close that he could feel the heat of her skin on his own, and it seemed to him that they shared the same breath. "You've given more than enough to this city. You deserve an end to it all."

"Fenris, that's not how it works," she said, pulling away.

He lost the battle against his fear and captured her hand in his, holding it tightly as if to protect it. The sound of her quick intake of breath was painfully loud in the still night. "It is," he insisted. "Cut and run. Travel like you always wanted, before you can't anymore. Find some wooded cottage and cultivate land, scare the village children with your stories. Sail off into the horizon with Isabela; I know for certain she wouldn't deny you."

He felt her trembling, and suddenly her eyes seemed bright. "Don't know that our pirate queen would have much use for a crippled crewman," she said in a shaking voice, suddenly near tears.

"Even if you were truly crippled, she would make an exception for you," he insisted. "Find another place, anywhere but here."

"I couldn't," Hawke said. "I - I can't. There's still so much to be done here, and . . . and they need me."

"That's absolute shit," Fenris spat. "Rank nonsense."

"Ooh! Listen to you!"

"I'm serious, Marian. Leave this fetid pustule of a city before - before it claims you."

"And if I were to run away, what would I do with you?" she whispered. "Leave you here?"

He was suspended between two forceful extremes; the need to convince her to run away before she was hurt any more, broken by the selfish demands of Kirkwall, and the desire to close the slim distance between them with a kiss. He could not stop staring at her lips, the gentle curve of her cheek, her wide, shining eyes. And this was the danger of touch - this beauty, not pain - for it inspired a cascade failure of control, one that gained momentum once it had broken its banks.

He cleared his throat, struggling. "If it came down to it, yes. Leave me."

Something closed behind her eyes. "No."

"Marian . . . "

She yanked her hand away with such sudden vehemence that it almost sent him crashing into the dirt. Without another word, she pushed into the bar, and in that manner, the conversation was over. He trailed behind, watching the long rope of her hair bounce between her shoulder blades, the slight yet pronounced limp that she could not hide anymore.

And again, he was suspended between extremes. Relief that she had pulled away before he could make such a horrible mistake that there would be no recovering from it, and yet . . . dismay for the very same. He had gone three years without kissing her. Instead, he was tormented by those pale memories every time he closed his eyes.

Thought it was the dead of night, the Hanged Man was surprisingly crowded. In the back corner was a group of unsavory folk that Fenris did not recognize, and he felt a vague sense of unease at the sight of them. He was not surprised to see Isabela was awake, but instead of the usual court of admirers, she sat amid a dozen empty glasses with Merrill. She appeared to be attempting to cajole the mage into a game of Wicked Grace, but Merrill vaguely waved her away.

"Ung. No more," Merrill moaned. "I can hardly see my hands."

"Kitten, if your head doesn't feel like a beaten drum, you're not getting out of this that easily," Isabela teased.

"But it does! I don't think I can drink nearly as much as you can."

"Clearly." Isabela caught sight of Hawke and waved her over. "Maybe you'll indulge me, Mighty and Merciful Hawke?"

"Not after I've ingested my weight in alcohol," Hawke said, and though Fenris thought he might have imagined it, her eyes flickered to him for one, hard second. "I've had just about enough of sobriety to last the rest of my life."

Wonderful. He'd driven her to an alcohol habit. Not that he had any room to talk; he was such a regular patron of the Hanged Man that the barkeep could predict to the minute when he'd arrive, how long he'd stay, and how much he'd drink in the course of his evening. In fact, it seemed to him that most of Hawke's allies were in various stages of alcoholism - the better to deal with all that they saw and fought, perhaps.

Isabela lurched upright, threading her arm through Hawke's. "Well, then," she said, red-faced. "Allow me to accompany you. Just me, though. Fenris stays."

He knew better to argue, especially with Hawke in her current mood. With a disgruntled look at Merrill's crumbled form, he took a seat at their table and tried to ignore Isabela's vague whispering, which somehow managed to carry through the bar.

At least Merrill was too drunk to badger him, as she was inclined to do when sober. She'd ply him with thousands of irritating, personal questions about his life, his experience in Tevinter, his 'unwarranted' hatred of blood magic. It was infuriating that she seemed to think her experience as a mage gave her the perspective to comment on his experience, when the opposite was true; she was so entrenched in her view and power that she could not begin to consider anything that went beyond it.

"Mrph. Hello, Fenris," she said, muffled, her head buried beneath her arms.

"Good evening," he said stiffly. He would have liked to ignore her, but Hawke disproved of his rudeness, and he'd done enough to upset her for the evening.

Merrill poked her head up, gazing at him with surprising clarity, considering her inebriation. "Is Hawke all right?" she asked, slurring a little.

"Why do you ask?"

"She looks unhappy. Though she looks unhappy most of the time, these days. I ask her, but she always brushes me off. I think concern makes her uncomfortable."

He made a derisive noise. "Understatement."

"Well, yes. If you say so. Is she all right?"

Fenris decided against the lie; it was late and he was tired. "No," he said quietly.

"And that's why you're unhappy," Merrill said, her green eyes uncomfortably wide as she studied him. "Sometimes I see the two of you out of the corner of my eyes, and it seems like you're waiting for her to send you away or some such. Like you're waiting to be chastised every time you speak."

Someone as naive and foolish regarding their own life choices had no business being so astute when it came to others. Fenris frowned. "I don't know about that," he hedged, but Merrill forged ahead.

"Isabela says you love each other."

He let an irritated sigh out between clenched teeth. "When you gossip about someone, you normally don't come right back to the subject and share with them all your wild, offensive speculation."

"Well, why not?" Merrill seemed genuinely affronted. "It's quite dishonest, otherwise."

Fenris decided not to indulge Merrill with a response.

The four of them nursed various stages of drunkenness for the rest of the night. He watched Hawke and Isabela confer as the hours passed, and there was a small part of him that was glad to see it. Since Isabela had returned all those months ago, she seemed genuinely eager to atone for her betrayal. She shadowed Hawke nearly everywhere she went, and offered her expertise without asking for anything in return, not even a share of the spoils. Indeed - when trouble descended, Isabela took to defending Hawke with almost the same ferocity as he did himself. It was encouraging, when all was said and done. He wasn't inclined to trust Isabela immediately, but even he couldn't maintain his grudge against her in the face of her devotion.

It was even more surprising to note that Merrill now treated Hawke in the same way. The two of them did not have much history, and yet the blood mage completely devoted to Hawke, protective to a degree Fenris had trouble reconciling. In his experience, mages were not interesting in altruism unless such behavior benefited them in the long run. Yet, as far as he could see, Merrill asked nothing of Hawke but company.

It made holding a grudge against her difficult. She did not use her blood magic to take control of the situation, or to serve her wants. In fact, it almost seemed as if she had none.

But Fenris was no fool. He knew that just because something was not evident, did not mean it didn't exist. And so he resolved to watch. If there was a hint of duplicity in any of them, he would not hesitate as he had last time.

He did not know how many hours had passed when the front door opened, revealing figured robed in the Tevinter fashion. He felt his hackles rise, and just as the lyrium sang in his flesh the magister turned, his expression betraying immediate recognition. "You!" he hissed, drawing his staff.

Fenris did not hesitate. He drew his sword and flew forward, his singing blade whistling through the air as he moved, then -

- the next thing he was aware of, he'd smashed into the opposite wall, his head slamming back against the wood. He heard shouts, the sound of Hawke's voice, the sight of her stumbling off her stool, the barkeep yelling for them all to get the hell out -

He clambered to his feet just as the shadowed group in the back of the bar abandoned their drinks, advancing on the fray. For a moment, Fenris believed they meant to battle the magister and his entourage, but the illusion died when one sent a blade hurtling toward him, slamming ineffectually into the wall only inches left of his head.

They were all stupid and drunk, he raged, and he could not get the image of Hawke stumbling into a set of blades out of his mind. He screamed the force of his rage and hurtled to her side, the lyrium in his bones burning like the heart of a star. His sword was in his hands, and from that decision the world grew dim. He inhabited the battle, a nearly preternatural awareness of everything that transpired on the grid in his mind.

A dark man came at him, feinting left before lunging right, and he slammed his fist into his chest, noting with relish as the blades fell from his hands like leaves. He dodged the magister's spells at his back, whirling like a furious dervish and cutting down three mercenaries as he went. He saw Isabela fly over the fray, her blades point out like claws, before they sunk into the bank of an archer about to loose an arrow into Merrill. For her part, the blood mage acquitted herself far better than Fenris would have expected of her; her spells were fierce yet accurate, flaying flesh from the bone, a furious halo of thorns.

But it was Hawke who felled the magister. He did not see her advance - these days, no one did; she inhabited the shadow as if she had been born to it. Before the mage could turn to face her, she cut out his legs from under him before slicing through his guts, ensuring a slow and painful death if no one else intervened.

Only then, it was quiet. Hawke advanced on the magister, her blades spinning idly in her hands, catching the dim light of the fire. "Tell me your purpose here, magister, and I'll ease your passing," she hissed, kneeling at his side.

"Speak of it to your slave, bitch," the magister spat, flecking blood on his chin. "Or the whore. They could tell you, if not inclined to lies."

"I'm asking you, instead," Hawke said sharply. "Were you here for Fenris?"

But the magister turned away, gurgling wetly, splattering the floor with his blood. With a snarl, Hawke dragged her dagger across the magister's throat, and in that manner, the room was silent once again.

"Well," Isabela said, panting, and it seemed to Fenris that she was more inconvenienced than concerned by this turn of events. "This is trouble."

Fenris held out his hand to Hawke and she took it, standing unsteadily as she wiped her blades clean before sheathing them. He could only guess the contents of her thoughts, but there was a hard, speculative cast to her eyes, and when she met his gaze, it was fathomless as the pitted dark.

He knew, then, that it would be impossible to convince her to leave. Not now, not when Tevinter breathed down their neck while Kirkwall threatened to tear itself apart from within. He wished more than anything that he could, but he knew it like he knew his own breath, his body. He knew that she would rather die than leave a stone unturned.

He knew it was likely that it would come to that.


End file.
